The Joker and the Thief
by Chalcedony Rivers
Summary: October, 2003. Howard, a long-suffering bank robber, is ready to rid himself of his old life, until insufferable cab-driver Vince bursts into his life, stealing his clothes and taking up his attic. If only kidnap wasn't an offence. Mint Royale AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**Note – Hi there. This is my first forage into Mint Royale fic, which I have recently become addicted to. However, I can't promise that this will match its predecessors – namely the mightily superior "Stockholm Syndrome" or more recently the epic genius that is "The Accessory" (these I know, if you know of any other MR fics please tell me) but I have done my best to do right by the genre, and I hope it will be enough to live up to some small expectations. Thanks for reading.**_

**Sunday October 3rd 2003.**

"For _fuck's_ sake will everybody just _shut the fuck up_?"

"Claxton, there's no need to shout at everybody!"

"Moon, I swear to all that is high and holy that if you _don't shut the fuck up_ as well I will drive my gun right through your _fucking arse_"

Howard Moon rolled his eyes, and glanced down at the hyperventilating little old lady whom he had in a rather unimpressive headlock. The room had fallen deathly silent since Ken's outburst, and her terrified, trembling squeaks were the only noise in the room. As kindly as he could muster with a balaclava over his head, he smiled down at her.

"Madam, I'm very sorry for any inconvenience caused, but if you would mind just calming down for us then nobody will need to be hurt"

This only seemed to scare the poor old dear further, and she whimpered, screwing her eyes tight shut. She looked like a little bird in the paws of a cat, Howard thought.

"Look, mate…" came a voice. It was one of the men behind the counter. His neatly arranged black hair was now dishevelled and his white shirt was sticking to his chest with sweat. His eyes were large and pleading. His nametag read: Hi, my name is Drew. A real peacekeeper. "We'll give you what you want, alright. Just please put your guns down and let her go"

Next to Howard, Ray grinned. "Fucking NatWest, eh?" he beamed. "All that customer service shite. They wouldn't have taken this sort of bullshit in Halifax!"

The three men lowered their weapons slowly, keeping a tight reign on the handles. Howard's hands were sweating through his black gloves. He kept his other hand around the women's neck, but let it soften slightly. She slumped in his arms in a dead faint, and he stooped to catch her, muttering "Whoopsy daisy…" under his breath as he did so.

In front of him, Ken and Ray had stepped forward towards the cashiers, who flinched with each step their assailants took. Ken stopped in front of Drew, his leg next to the plastic Duplo table where small children were crying out to their frozen mothers over the other end of the bank. Drew fumbled around with the till, his hands shaking as he went, until suddenly he stopped. Ken rapped his gun against the window threateningly.

"What's the hurry, eh, Barrymore?" he growled with a sadistic grin. "Or have you conveniently forgotten that I have a _fucking gun_ in my hand and am more than happy to _shoot you_?"

"Stop shouting!" Howard called. "You're scaring the children!"

"Do I look like I give a _flying fuck_?" Ken yelled back, not taking his eyes off a frightened Drew. The young man shivered, and their eyes met.

"There's a problem…" he muttered into the microphone. Ken's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean there's a fucking problem?" he snarled. Next to him, Ray held up his gun again and advanced until he was level with his partner.

"Now look here, Drew" he said, his voice mocking innocence, his Somerset accent contrasting brilliantly with Howard's Yorkshire and Ken's rough Irish brogue. "I wanted a note job, alright. Nice and simple, no fuss. Until your friend here" he motioned with his gun to a pretty blonde girl who was cowering in a corner, "Decided to call management on us. So now, we've got to do this the hard way. So just give us the money, and we'll be on our merry ways, comprendè?"

Drew gulped, and nodded. He fiddled with his tacky M&S tie as he typed a code into the computer. Ken tapped his foot. Howard glanced down at the unconscious women in his arms. The atmosphere in the room was tense. Then there was a bleep, and Drew took a couple of handfuls of notes and threw them in the curved transition box. He flipped it over, and Ken cackled with glee. He grabbed the money and threw it into the briefcase he carried.

"Thank you kindly, Drew" Ray smiled, lowering his weapon again. Drew put his hands into the air, and carefully stepped towards the door. The trio watched him, interested as to what he would do next. Then, the young man slid a piece of paper across at Ray.

"S-sign here please" he stuttered, his voice tight. Ray stared at the paper in disbelief. Then he took the small biro from the holder off the table, and scratched two words on the paper: _Elvis Costello_. Then he laughed at Drew.

"You're fucking unbelievable, mate" he grinned. "Some balls you've got there"

Drew smiled nervously. Then Ray abruptly stopped laughing, frowned, and shot a bullet right into the cashier's leg. Then all hell broke loose.

Drew screamed out in pain and collapsed, with a piercing wail that cut through the air as blood spewed like rose petals onto the floor. Meanwhile, all the other people in the bank began to shriek and scurry around like headless chickens towards the exit. At the same time, sirens could begin to be heard in the distance. Howard looked down at the old lady, who was now wide awake and clutching a panic button. He lowered her to the floor, and then pointed his gun at the crowd, who immediately ducked for cover. Then, with only Drew's piteous mewls and the police sirens to be heard, the three men legged it to the exit and up the stairs. The alarms screeched in their ears, and they ripped their balaclavas off as the ancient mint-coloured cab could be seen in the distance. They tore the doors open, and jumped inside. Their taxi driver turned to them and frowned.

"I think you'll find that was more like three minutes" he reprimanded. Howard looked at Ray, growled, picked up his gun and pointed it straight at the boy's head. The driver's eyes and mouth fell open, and he began to tremble at the sight of the gun.

"Just drive" Howard said quietly, slowly. "You fucking moron"

And the boy complied.

The car started with a judder, just as a group of armed police thundered up the stairs. One of them pointed his gun and fired at the car. The men jumped instinctively, but the driver swerved, and the bullet flew past the window and ricocheted off the large metal poles. Then the boy, a bead of sweat running down his petrified little neck, veered down the ramp, and hurtled through the car park and out into the streets of London.

"Thank Christy for that" Ray said, wiping his forehead.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Howard yelled at him, turning the gun off the driver and onto his friend. "Why on Earth did you shoot him in the _fucking leg_?"

"He was taking the piss!" Ray defended.

"And that's reason to shoot him, is it?" Howard shouted, amazed at his partner's stupidity. "The damn kid was doing his job, just like the rest of us!"

"Who the fuck _does their job_ when faced with armed bank robbers?"

"And what the hell about you, Moon?" Ken barked, turning round from the front passenger seat. "You had one job – keep an eye on the hostage. And what does she do? She calls the fucking pigs on us!"

"She was a little old lady, what the fuck was I meant to do?"

"Well, what was all that I'm so sorry madam bullshit? You just tell them to shut the fuck up and they do, it's as simple as that"

"It's called compassion!" Howard snarled. "Not that you know about that-"

"Will you all just shut up in my taxi, alright?" the boy suddenly yelped. "I can't hear meself think, and as I'm obviously the designated driver, it's a bit important that I can"

The taxi fell silent. Each man glowered in his seat. It was the boy who spoke first.

"Right…" he said, shakily. "Now where am I driving to?"

"Take a left turn onto the A102" Howard muttered. "Just keep driving until we tell you to stop. Any funny business and there'll be consequences"

"Look, I just stopped you all from being shot" the boy flung back. "You might have the courtesy to stop threatening me"

"Enough of the lip, boy" Ray cut in, pressing his own gun to the back of the leather seat. "Or you'll end up with a bullet right through that pretty face of yours"

"Go on then!" the boy challenged, gazing into the rear-view mirror with narrowed eyes. There was a tense silence in which anything could have happened. Then Ray lowered the weapon.

"You little shit…" he muttered.

"Right back atcha" the boy replied wryly. Howard internally smirked. This kid was either incredible brave or ridiculously stupid. After a while, the boy leaned over the dashboard, slammed a CD down into the portable music player, and clicked play. A horrific electronic sound filled the taxi, and Howard groaned.

"What is this shit?" he snapped over the music.

"Don't you know nothing?" the kid replied, obviously not noticing the irony at the double negative in his sentence. "It's David Bowie, you bell-end"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" the older man protested.

"What? You can't kidnap me and not let me play my music, mate"

"You know Bowie was a racist, right?"

"Nick off; doesn't mean I can't like his music"

"He has got a point there, Moon" Ken grinned. Howard raised his middle finger at him.

The boy was shivering in his seat, and Howard could see his fingers had become wan and slippery with sweat. The bravado was all an act, then. He was obviously a gifted actor, even if he didn't look like it with his sunglasses and leather jacket. After a while of daunting quiet, he sighed, turned off the player and Bowie ceased. Howard tugged his gloves off.

"How much do you reckon we got then?" Ray piped up greedily.

"How the fuck should I know?" Ken replied calmly. "Maybe…three million?"

Ray whooped with glee. He took a calculator from his pocket and typed a few numbers into it. He whistled softly. "Shit! That's around one million each"

"Really…?" Ken muttered softly. Ray pulled a face.

"So you lot are bank robbers, then?" the driver said quietly.

"No, actually, we're not" Ken leered sarcastically. "We just told you to wait in the car park and not act suspicious to go in and _withdraw_ three million quid. Why the fuck do you think we asked you to pretend to be our chauffeur? Or are you really that thick?"

"Alright, alright…" the boy muttered. "Where do I go here?"

"Turn off onto the M2. Don't turn again until I tell you to" Howard said. The kid did so.

"What era are you from, then?" he asked, but his voice was a little higher and more nervous then he had been a second ago. "It's 2003! Bank robbers, s'all a bit 1930s; Jesse James 'n that"

"That's rich coming from someone who still has a portable CD player in his car" Ray shot back fiercely. "And I think you'll find that Jesse James was the 1800s, you idiot"

The car fell silent. The poor cabbie was obviously in shock, Howard thought. This plan hadn't, admittedly, been thought through very well. After all, what the bloody hell were they going to do with the kid once they got back? They didn't usually end up with hostages, but since the plan had gone to fuck…Ray would have no problem shooting him, but he was a sick sadistic bastard anyway. Still, they couldn't let him go, after all, not whilst he was still a liability. God knew how long it would be before the police gave up their search. Then again, now somebody had been injured (possibly fatally, if Ray hit an artery, said a little voice in his head, but he pushed it down again) they might be more thorough. Even so, a million was a pretty good haul for a day.

They four men drove in silence for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only around an hour and a half. Eventually, the concrete blocks and office towers of the capital faded to burnt suburban brick, which then gave way to green and yellow fields as they delved deeper and deeper into the country. The boy didn't speak once, but you didn't have to be a genius to notice how shallow his breathing became as he drove. Once, Howard almost put out his hand to comfort the lad, until he realised that he had every right to be terrified.

"Ok, now make a left onto the A299" he muttered, his voice smooth in the deafening quiet. It was darkening now; the October days didn't last long and at six the sky was already smeared with a rich, clotting black that spread like blood on a white shirt. The driver was instructed to turn at a roundabout, and the noise of the motorway petered out until all that was left was the silky rumbling of the car and the spots of yellow that hung on the road from the blaring headlights. They were right in the Kentish country now. Howard doubted that the boy with the strong Cockney accent had ever been this far away from home. He took his glasses off.

"You see that sign up ahead? You need to go right"

They drove down the long and winding tarmac snake that was the main road in the silence of the night. Presently, the dimming glow of a small town appeared before them. Howard wiped the hair from his forehead. "Right again"

The boy parked the car slap bang in the middle of the road next to a blue Ford Fiesta. Howard groaned with joy as he opened the door next to him and slid out, his numb feet tingling as they hit the pavement. Three doors slammed. The driver looked through the window, regarding the trio coolly, nervous anticipation in the tense stance of his body. Howard beckoned for him to follow, tapping at the coat pocket where his gun was stashed. The boy opened his door, and banged it shut. He gazed up and down the street, as if assessing his own possibilities to make a break for it. Then he took one longing look at his car, and manually locked it.

Howard stood in front of the house. It was large, looming in the darkness and casting shadows around three storeys high onto the Sea Wall below it. He fumbled in his pocket, the one without the gun, for the key. Ken and Ray huddled around him, looking up and down the street whilst keeping an eye on the kid hovering warily behind them in case he made a break. Howard fumbled with the door, and then finally unlocked it. He took a step inside, and switched on the lights. Warmth flooded the doorstep. The men followed him, Ken ushering the cabbie with a predatory grin before him, and then the door was closed on the outside world.

The cab driver gaped in astonishment as Ken and Ray pushed past him and through a door to the left (which, judging by the bearish cries of "Fuck, I need a drink!" led to a kitchen). The hallway was grand and large, unlike anything he'd ever seen. The walls were papered with an odd blue design that looked like it came with the house and the furniture was all antique and deep mahogany. There were lights on every table, which Howard was switching on. He looked up at the boy's incredulous face.

"You know, if you take your sunglasses off you'll be able to see better"

The boy jumped. "What? Oh, right…" He slid the glasses off his head, and Howard was met with a pair of large, very blue eyes which contrasted with his dyed red hair.

The boy smiled nervously, and began tapping his hands against his legs in an odd patting rhythm which was probably a tic. "Nice place"

"Thank you" Howard replied stiffly. He was not used to complements, least of all from strangers, least of all from strangers who he'd taken as a hostage.

"Not what I thought a bank robber's house would look like, though" the kid rambled. "I thought it would be, like, all modern. Not tasteful, even if you do call this taste"

Howard huffed a small chuckle. "And I suppose you meet a lot of us, in your line of work"

The young man flushed a little, the colour stark against his pale and angular face. Howard shook his head at his naivety and suppressed a tight smile. Whatever you do, Moon, he thought, don't let him know that you are human.

"Get upstairs" he muttered. The kid had been playing with a wooden ornamental cat, and he looked up at his assailant sharply.

"What?" he said. No manners either, then.

"I said…" Howard muttered through gritted teeth. "Get upstairs. You may be relying on charm alone to get out of this, but remember who the man with the gun is"

Needless to say, the boy moved quickly, skittering up the two flights of stairs like a startled beetle. Howard followed him up. The upstairs hallway was vast, navy carpet stretching like a straight river from one end to the other. Doors were locked, evenly placed and perfectly opposite each other on each side leading to a ridiculous magnitude of rooms. Howard pushed the boy up again, coming to a small white door at the top of the second flight of stairs. He fumbled with the key to open it, and herded the kid inside.

The room was at the top of the house; a proper attic room. It was similar to all others in the house in design, but sparser. There was a small single bed, a wardrobe, a table with a mirror and an armchair. There was another door in a corner which probably led to an adjacent bathroom. There was a large window at the front which would have made it well-lit and bright were it not covered with thick black blinds like blackout curtains.

"I'm going to lock you in. I should probably let you know that that window is soundproofed and locked" Howard said from the doorway. It had been surprisingly easy to get a soundproofed window with no questions asked. The salesman had been a slimy bastard, and had asked Howard if his girlfriend was really that noisy. "There's also no phone signal. And don't do anything stupid; because if you do I will have no qualms in dealing with it"

"What makes you think I'm gonna do something stupid?" the boy asked. Howard didn't reply, stunned by the reply but not showing it. The kid turned slowly. Bright blue eyes met pale brown. He cocked his head to one side and placed a hand on his hip.

"Are you gonna shoot me?" he asked.

"I just might" Howard said slowly, relishing the words.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christy…" the boy said, and sunk onto the bed, taking his head in his hands as if it were a priceless ruby. Howard smirked, feeling a pang of something (Guilt? Crabsticks?) in the pit of his stomach. The boy swallowed, shaking, deathly pale.

"Right. Well, I aint scared" he said, and the tremor in the contours of his face and the unnaturally high pitch of his voice gave him away. Regardless, Howard held his gaze, listening to the lies. "I know you think I am, but I aint. My body's telling me that I should be, and I know I am physically, but…" he paused, choosing his words. "Once I get over this…" He held out a wan and shaking hand and clenched it into a fist. "I'll be a proper perfect little hostage, I swear"

Whatever. He still looked like death warmed up.

Howard looked him up and down. "You're getting off on this, you little bitch"

The boy tried for a cheeky grin; tremors at the corners of his lips. "So what if I am?"

"Oh, fuck _me_!" Howard snapped, and the kid's smile fell from his lips. Howard ran a hand over his face, ignoring the wounded expression and quickly continuing before the boy could reply in the positive or negative (and it really _didn't_ matter). "I'm too tired for this shit. I'm going to bed"

He turned, and stalked out the room. He grabbed the handle, and made to shut the door.

"My name's Vince!" came the cry from inside.

And, somehow, that made it a whole lot harder to look the door after him.

* * *

When Howard woke up the next morning, the house was silent. It was usually quiet – this was Whitstable, after all – but today the quiet seemed stifling, like a child hiding inappropriate giggles from an adult. He sat up, and rubbed his face. He hadn't even had a shower last night, and he felt horribly hot and clammy from where he had been tangled up in the blue bed sheets. Yesterday's crumpled clothes were sprawled over the navy armchair next to the bookcase, and he could see spots of coppery blood on his black heavyweight coat. Shit. He'd have to wash those later.

Howard hauled himself out of bed and made his way to the window. Drawing back the curtains, the sun flooded into his room, forcing his sticky eyes to shut in a forced blink. He opened the big glass doors, having forgotten to lock them last night, and walked out onto the balcony, clad only in a well-fitted striped pair of pyjamas. He leant on the barrier, his vision cloudy without his glasses, and listening to the sound of waves sloping in and off the pebbled beach. It was good to be at home, he thought. Whitstable was a nice town, a clean town. You don't get bank robbers in Whitstable. He looked down at the little road before his house at the little green car, and sighed. He'd have to check on the kid – Vince – later.

He didn't bother to shut the doors again when he went back into his room, nor did he bother to get dressed, save for his glasses, before he went downstairs. When he made his way into the living, Ken and Ray were sprawled out on adjacent sofas, undisturbed by the sunlight, cans of lager on the table in front of them. Howard rolled his eyes, and kicked out at Ray's chubby ankle that dangled over the edge of the sofa. The man grunted, and his eyes flickered open.

"For a man of extreme crime, your reflexes are appalling" Howard said, sitting down on the soft armchair opposite. Ray barely moved from the chair.

"Fuck off, Moon, I've got a blinder" he groaned, closing his eyes again. Howard didn't budge.

"Look, what are we going to do about…you know"

"What, the fucker upstairs?" Ray grumbled, eyes firmly shut. "Fuck should I know?"

"Could you stop swearing in my house, please?"

"Shit off. What about you, effing and blinding away at me last night?"

Howard heaved a sigh. "I was pissed off, alright? But, seriously, what are we doing?"

Ken squirmed on the sofa, and his eyes slowly unfastened. He looked up, seemingly not affected by the alcohol, with a grin and a call of: "Morning, gents"

"Ken" Howard nodded. "We were just discussing…" He looked pointedly at Ray, who opened his eyes and glared at him. "What to do with the kid upstairs"

"Who, the cabbie?" Ken asked. "Why don'tcha just shoot his pointy face off?"

"Oh, piss off, Ken" Howard moaned. "That's not an option. We're not in London anymore, alright? I'd be found out in a minute"

"That's our man Moon!" Ken cackled, clapping his hands together with a noise that made Ray wince. "All that bullshite about compassion! I said you hadn't gone soft, didn't I Ray?"

"Look, we're off topic!" the northerner snapped. "Right now, there's a cocky little bugger in my attic room who needs to be dealt with, one way or another"

"He's your problem, Moon, you deal with it"

"Ken, this isn't my problem, because I'm not the one who shot a bank clerk in the leg"

"Oh, shit, we're still on that, are we?" Ray tutted.

"Well, in my defence, if you hadn't done that we wouldn't have had to kidnap our driver!"

"We didn't need to kidnap him; as I recall you're the one who told him to drive!"

Howard was torn between punching Ray in the face and making the bloke angry as hell or not saying anything and looking weak. He opted for the latter, for the sake of some twisted, relative form of peace. "I was improvising. Anyway, he's upstairs and he can't be there for long"

"Then let him go, for fuck's sake!" Ray growled.

"I can't do that" Howard said slowly. "Because he's a damn liability"

"Why don't you just keep him, then?" Ray whined. "Stop complaining"

Howard's mouth fell open. "I'm not keeping him!"

"Why not? I'm sure he's housebroken" Ken snickered.

"I am not keeping some Fashionista adolescent in my house!" Howard objected. "He listens to David Bowie for Christy's sake!" He gathered himself at the steely, hung-over glint of recklessness in Ray's irritated eyes. "Look, we'll give it a week tops. When the press dies down, I'll dump him on a road somewhere; make sure he doesn't talk. If he does, well…" He shrugged. "You two will be home by then, won't you? He can be yours to play with. But one week, _maximum_, alright? And in the meantime you two can shit off back to London"

"Sounds fair to me" Ken muttered nonchalantly.

"Fantastic" Howard breathed. "So you can get your feet off my sofas now, can't you?"

The mobsters slowly straightened, Ray whimpering and clutching at his head as he did so, until they were sitting upright. Ken mumbled something incomprehensible about tea and made his way into the adjacent kitchen, and Howard resolved to go and put on something a little more masculine than his current striped pyjama affair.

Upon opening his wardrobe, however, he felt oddly self-conscious. The kid (he couldn't quite bring himself to use his name yet) had looked like one of those hip young Londoners that he hated with a passion, with his leather bomber jacket and tight jeans and red cowboy boots. But, somehow, he found himself scrutinising his shirts and trousers with a keen eye, wondering which would impress the boy most. Not for any weird way, though. He just wondered which would make him seem the most like a normal guy to the taxi driver whom he'd just kidnapped. He ended up settling for a plain green shirt and some brown cords. Nice and simple.

When he unlocked the door, the kid had been waiting with a catlike poise by the doorway for him. At the first click he had attempted to make a break for it, but Howard had prepared for this, and heard the sound of breath striking the air when his arm met a boney torso and the small thud when Vince toppled to the floor breathlessly.

"Now, now" Howard said gently, shutting the door. "What did I say about stupidity?"

The kid glared at him. His eyeliner had run, like a flat-line under his eyes.

"You gotta give me credit for trying"

"Yeah, alright, fair enough"

Apart from the jacket that was slung over the armchair and the neatly placed boots, he was still dressed in the now-rumpled clothes he'd been wearing yesterday, having obviously slept, or refused to sleep, in them.

"What happened to you being my proper perfect little hostage, then?"

"Yeah, that wasn't working out for me"

Howard breathed, taking a moment to reassert his dominance. "We've decided not to let you go just yet, so you're going to be staying right here. Understand?"

The boy called Vince laughed dryly and fell back onto the floor. "Brilliant! Is this my room, then? Classy. I'm staying with a proper gangster, how genius is that?" He lifted himself up on one elbow and winked at his mortified assailant. "Is this like The Godfather? I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse and all that?"

"Ok, firstly, we're not gangsters, or mobsters, or the mafia, or any bullshit like that" Howard said firmly. "We're men who have guns and orchestrate bank heists"

Vince sobered, and propped himself up on his elbow, facing Howard with a critical eye. "Nah, guess you're right" he agreed. "You'd hardly pass for a Mafioso in that outfit"

"I thought it was alright" Howard remonstrated, feeling oddly wounded.

"On you, yeah" the kid defended. "But it's hardly The Italian Job, is it?"

Howard suddenly realised how completely bizarre it was to be having this conversation with the hostage in his attic. "Well, anyway, don't get too comfortable. It's only for a week"

"What're you going to do after that?" The shake. "Shoot me?"

"Well, I was planning on dumping you on the M25 somewhere, but right now shooting you seems like a much more satisfying option"

"Dumping me on the M25?" Vince questioned incredulously. "That's hardly dignified"

"It's not meant to be dignified!" Howard mimicked, exasperated.

"I think after saving you dickheads last night that's the least I deserve" the boy muttered sullenly, and then his face suddenly lit up. "Hang on…doesn't that mean that you owe me your life or something?"

"Get lost! If you don't shut up your dignity's going to be the last thing you worry about"

Vince shot Howard a glaring look, folded his arms and his face folded into a sulky pout. "Shut up. I really aint scared, even if you do want to shoot me"

Oh, God. They were back to this, were they?

"Good for you" Howard patronised. "Really, wonderful. But just to let you know, I don't care what you say, because your little act won't have any effect on me"

"Give it a few weeks" the little tit said, so full of charming confidence that it was practically oozing from his pores. "I'll be sticking to you like a limpet. You won't have a choice" Vince smiled, a radiant and dazzling smile that lit up his whole face. It was the sort of smile that would have the whole female population of Camden falling at his feet. Howard wasn't fooled.

It was the sort of smile that cried out _please don't kill me I've got so much to give_.

"Trust me, after one week you'll be begging for your freedom"

"Really? You don't look like that sort of man"

"Are you analysing me, sir?"

"Did you seriously just call me sir?"

How had they fallen into this easy bickering Howard had no clue, but he gathered himself quickly, refusing to let himself get sucked in. Oh, God, he'd almost forgotten why he came up here in the first place! "Yes, I did, and if you have any sort of sense about you, you won't comment on it. Now, do you need anything to eat?"

"Wow! Do I get a choice?" Vince beamed. "I bet most hostages don't get room service"

Howard shifted uncomfortably, and decided not to let the kid know that he didn't know how to handle hostages. "I'm not offering a Full English. Do you want food or not?"

"Well, now you mention it, a bit of toast would be pretty good"

"Right. I'll bring it up in a minute, so don't think you're going anywhere"

Howard quickly turned and left before the kid had any more chances to spring unwanted surprises on him. Already the week ahead was looking daunting. If he visited Vince three times a day for meals for a week that that would be twenty-one visits. Twenty-one ridiculous bantering conversations. And that was if the boy didn't insist on being obscenely irritating.

He made his way into the kitchen, took a half-used loaf of granary bread from the breadbin, and cut four thick chunks off it. He stuck them in the toaster, and poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. His head already hurt from Vince's birdlike chirping, but it was certainly too early in the morning for a stiff drink. He closed his eyes and downed the juice, letting the cold acidity burn against the back of his raw throat. Maybe he was coming down with something. Maybe he was just too old for these sorts of games, if thirty five was considered old.

"Oi, Moon!" came a voice. Howard's eyes opened to see Ray glaring at him from the doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, just thought I'd let you know that me and Ken are, as you so politely put it, shitting off back to London right about now"

Howard frowned. "Oh. Bit soon, isn't it?"

"No reason to hang around" Ray shrugged. "We'll take the kid's car"

"Fair enough. But remember to-"

"Change the licence plate, I know" Ray sighed with a smile and a wink. "It's A214 GLP at the moment. I'll take it to Archie when we get home; get him to sort it"

"And remember to-

"Take the back streets, I know! Fuck, Howard!"

"Good man" Howard muttered approvingly. He drained the dregs of the juice, placed the glass down on the marble counter and followed his colleague through the hallway and out onto the sea wall. He leant against the doorway of the house as Ray and Ken clambered into the taxi, nodding his farewell to the uproarious cheers from behind the glass. Ken started the car, and the ancient engine hummed into life as wheels reversed across the tarmac.

It was then that Howard heard a sound, a faint clanging like someone was bashing two saucepans together with oven gloves on. He looked around at the street, but turned back to the car when he could not find the source of the sound. Ray was laughing manically, and pointing to the roof of his house. Howard's eyes followed the direction Ray's fat finger, and he swore under his breath. Vince was banging on the window with the palm of his hand, his eyes wide and wild, his face flushed from yelling. As the taxi drove from sight, Howard charged back into the house, slammed the door and snatched the gun from his coat pocket. He hurtled up the stairs, two steps at a time, unlocked the attic door and threw himself into the room. Vince turned from the window, and winced at the sight of the weapon, but remained completely still.

"What the fuck do you think your doing?" Howard said quietly. He didn't shout. He was a man who knew when to shout and when not to. "Didn't I tell you not to do anything stupid?"

"Those shitheads have got my car!" Vince bellowed.

There was a moment of tense silence. Then Howard lowered his gun.

"What?" he said quietly.

"They've got my car; they've stolen my fucking car!" Vince said, panting from exertion. "If I get a fine from the loan company I'll kill them! And you're paying"

"Hang on a minute…" Howard stated, rubbing his hand over his face. "You're up here going mental over the car? It isn't even worth a fine"

Vince gave him a tetchy look and placed a hand on one hip. "What do you mean by that?"

"It's a shit car! I wouldn't piss on it, let alone pay the fine!"

"You weren't complaining about it yesterday"

Howard paused for a moment as the situation sunk in. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh. The laughter grew, and Vince looked on astounded as tears streamed from his captor's eyes and he gasped for breath, barking out large bouts of mirth and choking on those stuck in his chest.

"I thought you were trying to escape!" Howard wheezed after a while. "I thought I was going to have to kill you…God almighty! And this is about the fucking car?"

"Yes, it is about the fucking car!" Vince griped, but a smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth as well. "You leave my car alone"

"It's an antique!" Howard snickered. "How do you drive it?"

Vince was openly grinning now. "Petrol's always good"

Howard sighed to stop his chest from shaking, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Fuck's sake. Who do you think you are?"

"I'm Vince Noir, rock n roll star"

"Are you now?" Howard raised his eyebrows. "That your real name?"

"Yeah" Vince grinned. "Fuck my parents. Gotta love 'em, though"

Howard nodded. Vince's tongue flickered over his lips to wet them: "Do you reckon you can get the car for me? Only, I'll never love again if it don't come back"

"I'll give Ray a call later; see what he can do" Howard relented, not wanting to tell the kid that within two days his friends would more than likely have drunkenly driven the car into the Thames or set it alight from a discarded cigarette. Vince still winced at his tone of voice, though.

"Alright…" he said unsurely, knowing that it was the best deal he would get. "Tell them to be gentle, yeah?"

"Yes, yes"

Howard turned, and left the room. As he was locking the door for the third time in two days, he heard Vince's voice call out to him again:

"Oi! Where's my bloody toast?"

He sighed, but a smile tugged at his mustachioed lips as he went downstairs to the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Note – I don't own Whitstable, I don't own Howard or Vince, and I only own the inside of Howard's house (the outside is based on some real Whitstable houses). I do, however, own Ken and Ray. Impressed? Me neither. Thanks to all the amazingly supreme reviewers who have taken the time to read this – your comments are much treasured. Please enjoy.**_

**Tuesday October 12****th**** 2003.**

"Are you ever going to leave?"

"Wasn't planning on it. You?"

"What? This my house"

"Oh yeah…"

Howard sighed, and stared at Vince across the room. After a week of bored pleading and frantic surveillance, he'd given up attempting to confine the sparkly little titbox in his room, leaving him to roam freely around the house. It wasn't a trust thing; it was just much more convenient (not when he discovered that the practically-teenager had stolen and "customized" some of what he determined to be Howard's more fashionable clothes in order to expand his own wardrobe) and he didn't mind having Vince's sunshine presence around, as irritating as it could get.

Still, it had been a week now. Over a week. Nine days, in fact.

"I'm bored" the mod whined, mosquito-like.

"I don't care, though, do I?"

Vince just glared at him. Howard turned back to the heavy-weight hardback in his lap. There were a few precious minutes of absolute silence.

"What're you reading?"

"David Pierce"

"Who?"

"Don't tell me you haven't heard of him. _Nineteen-Seventy-Four_? It's one of the best crime literature books of our times"

Vince slumped in the chair. He had his boot-clad feet on the seat in front of him and his arms wrapped around his skinny legs. "I said I don't read too good, didn't I?"

"That's not my problem, is it? And get your feet off my sofas"

Vince grinned, somewhat triumphantly, and complied. Annoyed, Howard turned back to the book. "And will you please stop using double negatives?"

"Double-what?"

"Double-negatives. Didn't you do English at school?"

"I told you; I grew up in the jungle with Bryan Ferry! I was Mowgli in flares"

Howard subtly rolled his eyes. Vince was such a good liar that he seemed to be almost better at false identification than Howard was – only the outlandish stories he told every time the older man questioned his captive's history were so utterly ridiculous that no policeman would be fooled by them. Anyway, nobody could be better than him. Nicholas Jones was pleasant and nondescript, and came packaged with a rather nice birth certificate, passport, even dental records – and, most importantly, alibis.

"I'm bored"

"Yeah, you've told me about eighty-nine times now"

"Twice"

"Yeah, but that's not counting the perpetual state of tedium you seem to be in, is it?"

"Can't I go out? Just for a little bit?"

Howard's head shot up, his eyes steely. "No"

"Why not?" Vince whined. Howard just glowered at him, and after a while his blue eyes filled with a gloomy realization. "Oh, yeah. Aw, come on! I won't say nothing"

"Your grammar is appalling. Do you even know where we are?"

"Er…no. We're by the coast somewhere off the A299 from the M2 though"

"How did you remember that?"

"I'm a cabbie, aren't I? I remember everywhere I've ever been. I can tell you exactly how to get from Convent Garden to Mare Street in under ten minutes"

"Sure you can. I'm not letting you off when you don't even know where we are"

"So tell me and I won't get lost"

"Actually, we're in Cobham, Surrey"

"Really?"

"Piss off. Do you really think I'd be that stupid? Don't answer that"

Vince's face fell. He looked so pathetic with his pleading eyes that Howard nearly considered the possibility of relenting. Then he went back to his book.

"But, see, you're in a bit of a conundrum here, aint ya? Because, if you can't let me outside 'coz I might tell on you, and you want me to stop being bored, then you need to compromise"

"I don't want you to stop being bored; I want you to stop complaining"

"But I am bored! I am physically dying of boredom!"

"I've read this sentence eighty-nine times now, so I'm at the point where I'm seriously considering shooting you and dumping you in a Little Chef toilet on the motorway"

He didn't miss Vince's small and barely visible shudder, though whether at the prospect of death or lack of hygiene he didn't know. The kid quickly got himself together and smirked.

"You really like the number eighty-nine, don't you?"

"What are you on about?"

"You've already used it twice in this conversation. I've been counting"

"Smart-arse…"

Vince squirmed in the chair. "Bored-arse. Come on, let me go out!"

"No. And no to every other time you ask me this question. Now shut up or leave me alone"

Vince's mouth set into a hard line, and he stood up. "Whatever. I'm not your bitch"

Though not a religious man, Howard muttered a small amen of relief when the younger man stormed out of the room. For a few precious seconds, silence reigned supreme in the house. But then the metaphorical glass cracked as Howard heard the front door open and slam.

"Oh shit…" he muttered, and flung himself out into the hallway, praying to God that Vince had just opened and closed the door to worry him, and would be standing there with a smug grin and a witty retort. But, of course, he wasn't. Howard squared his shoulders, and threw open the door. He could just see a small stick-like figure marching off into the distance along the sea front, wearing _his_ clothes. For a few moments, he stood and pondered his prospects. Should he chase down the kid and attract attention to himself, or should he take a risk in letting him go? He opted for the latter, and felt more crows feet appear around his eyes as he closed the door. He was never very good at coping with stress, let alone looking after a bloke who acted like a child. Vince couldn't even cook for himself, for God's sake. They'd been living off takeaways for the last nine days – the collection of which was the only chance Howard got to leave his own house, after locking Vince safely in his room, and the only chance he got to pick up papers. The Guardian had offered the most accurate version of events. This particular paper from eight days ago was currently lying on the coffee table, a picture of the car from security cameras adorning the cover.

_MAN WOUNDED AFTER ARMED BANK ROBBERY _screamed the headline. _By Dixon Bainbridge, Crime Correspondent. A NatWest branch bank was robbed yesterday by three armed men, the incident leaving none dead but head cashier Drew Michaels injured after suffering a gunshot to the foot. Michaels is now recovering and is said to be in a stable condition. The men were masked throughout the event which saw them leave with £3,000,000 of taxpayer's money but are thought by police to be those involved in the series of armed and note robberies from 1996-present. The men are at present unidentified but police have taken one man, Robert Fossil, into custody. Fossil has recently been released from prison for a series of petty robberies. Whilst footage from security cameras is limited, police are confident in evidence pointing to one of the thieves frequently referred to as "Moon" by his colleagues…_

Howard had already read the article through frequently. They really had been ridiculously lucky, considering the whole cock-up on Ray's behalf. Still, it seemed that Vince had been positioned well in the car so as not to be on the security camera's radar, and the one point he'd actually left the car the camera had miraculously turned away! It didn't quite figure that God would be on the side of the bank robbers, but it was damned fortunate (Vince had said that God was jealous of his hair, as if God wouldn't have his own personal hairdresser…if he existed). It was also lucky that nobody had come looking for Vince, but the kid had been confident about that. Nobody'll look for me, he had said with a cocky grin. Only person who really gives a shit is me flatmate and the police won't take no notice of him. Oh, and my boss, but he'll think I just ran off with his car. I live in _Camden_; people won't give a crap if another person disappears.

Howard had been both puzzled and infuriated by this speech. Puzzled because Vince seemed to be one of those people who had a massive social life and it seemed odd that only his flatmate would wonder about his absence – he'd have figured Vince's mates would have insisted on at least a column if not a front page feature and coverage on the BBC. Infuriated because Camden was near enough to Dalston, and he'd lived in Dalston for a while and he was sick of the bad press people gave it because it was really a very nice place to live and up-themselves tits like Vince kept trying to drag it down, acting like it was a slum and they were oh-so-unfortunate.

Even though it was an old one, Howard flicked through the paper anyway, skipping past the feature with the blurry and unflattering picture of him, Ray and Ken with their balaclavas on. There was a page on a suicide bomber in Haifa, and a column on some performer from Las Vegas who'd been mauled by his own tiger. Then he tried reading his book again, but the words blurred before his eyes and he couldn't take in anything that was happening, so an hour later he couldn't remember anything past where he started and so he gave up. Then he watched an episode of _Farmer Wants a Wife_ on ITV, but deemed it to be a waste of a perfectly good half an hour and so turned the TV off. Then he paced around the room for a bit. Then he turned on the TV again to see a news correspondent. He glanced at his watch. Five thirty.

"Bugger it" he said to George Alagiah on the telly. "I'm not going to wait around for that little shit. I'm not his father. He's not my responsibility"

He sunk down into his armchair again. Still, it had been almost two hours. There wasn't anything to do in Whitstable, let alone anywhere to get lost. It was a town trapped between the sea and the motorway. If the kid had made a break for it, where would he go? And what the hell would Howard do then? His house wasn't equipped for a shootout. Don't start getting paranoid, he told himself. Vince knows you're not one to be fucked with.

Out in the hallway, he heard the door click open. He scrambled out of his seat and into the hallway. Vince stood, closing the door behind him, clutching a small pink paper bag in his hand. He looked at the man standing disheveled in the doorway and grinned.

"You'll never believe it!" he said through a mouthful of strawberry bootlace. "There's a genius sweetshop down there – all old fashioned, like, with jars and everything! Isn't that so great?"

"What do you think you're playing at?" Howard growled. Vince's smile faded fast. "You could have got us both arrested"

"I didn't do anything" the young man protested. "I just needed to stretch my legs a bit, you know? I felt all rigid in here, I was like a breadstick"

"What did you do?" Howard muttered, his resolve crumbling at Vince's innocent explanation.

"Nothing!" came the reply. "I found a town, walked around a bit and came back"

Howard breathed through his nose. Vince looked at him, his face desperately hopeful.

"Howard…?"

Howard sighed. "Fine. Just don't do that again"

Vince's shoulder sagged in relief, and he stuck a hand into his pocket. "Look. I got something for you as well"

Howard frowned as another pink packet was thrust into his hand. He unravelled the crunching paper, and peered into the top. A sticky group of liquorice allsorts stared guiltily back. He looked up at Vince, who smiled gingerly.

"How did you know I like liquorice?"

Vince shrugged. "Dunno. Just instinct, I guess"

"Er…right" Howard said, unbalanced by the odd gesture. He took one of the sweets, a coconut roll, and placed it in his mouth, relishing the sticky sweetness that assaulted his tongue. "Thanks. I suppose. Yeah. Thanks"

Vince beamed.

"_I just found a town, walked around a bit and came back. Howard…?"_

He would realise later that it was the first time that Vince called him by his first name.

* * *

They had finally come to an agreement. It was a flimsy agreement, and Howard was almost 100% sure that Vince would find a loophole within the first couple of days, but it was an agreement nonetheless. And now he was finally free from the various techno-electro beats that seemed to bite and claw at his ears every five minutes. No David Bowie, that had been the first law to lay down, which Vince had then countered with No Charlie Mingus. Of course, the heavier jazz had to be abandoned for the sake of peace, at Vince's insistence, but then so did Bowie, Iggy and Numan. Jagger was allowed in limitation, as Vince had threatened to break Howard's stereo if anything more severe was put in order. The Beatles, Frank Zappa, The Kinks, ELO and surprisingly but thankfully Bob Dylan were shared preferences, so were always good to be played. The rest were evenly compromised.

But Vince wasn't there. He had been sent to get more milk, now Howard could just about trust him outside the house without panicking. And what Vince didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Howard crept over to the CD rack, and slid one out the bottom. His tracks were arranged in alphabetic order, whereas Vince's were scattered haphazardly on top of the player, cases open and discs infuriatingly placed in the wrong boxes. Howard stuck the CD in the player, and pressed play. The room filled with a warm hum, pleased to be given audience to such a piece of genius again. Then the music started.

"Ah, Bigface Eddison…" Howard sighed happily. "How I have missed you"

He fell back down on the sofa, the scat music rapidly filling every corner of the room with its rule-free and random swing. The music swayed through the folds in the curtains and jived merrily across the carpet. Howard felt at home in his own house once again.

Then he heard the click of the door open, and Vince came into the room.

"What's this?" he demanded, plastic bag swaying in his hand. Howard leapt up and dived across the room at the CD player, hitting the off button quickly. Vince shot him a look.

"Were you playing jazz?" he asked.

"Yes I was sir" Howard replied defiantly. "This is my house, after all"

"You know what it does to my skin!" Vince groaned. "I've got allergies. I can feel it. It's all up in my peripheries"

"Well, your music is abysmal" Howard said, flicking through the mess of CDs. It was the sort of music that he loathed – all beat and no tune, all synthesizers and no real instruments, all looks and no talent. It was the sort of music he hated on principle. Vince raised his eyebrows.

Howard scoffed at the pointed look. "Did you get the milk?"

Vince held up the bag. "Yep"

"And the Hula-Hoops?"

Vince frowned for a moment before his face crumpled into understanding. "Aw, I knew I'd forgotten something!"

"Don't worry; just get them next time" Howard said. He curled up on the sofa and opened his book. Vince sat heavily down on what appeared now to be "his" armchair.

"Do you ever do anything apart from read?" he asked cheekily. Howard sighed.

"It's a good pastime"

"It's well boring"

"Well, maybe you should learn to if it would make you shut up for one minute"

There was a pregnant pause. Howard winced, and looked up subtly. Vince's head was downcast and he was playing with a loose threat on Howard's ill-fitting jeans.

"Sorry" the older man admitted. "That _was_ a bit below the mark"

Vince nodded silently. "I'm not thick. I can read, just not well. I just aint got good concentration"

Howard nodded grimly. "Really?"

"Yeah. I left school early. Didn't do A-Levels. Got a Btec National AS in Hair Design though"

Howard didn't even want to think about why schools offered that as a career choice nowadays. He was definitely getting old.

"I've got to back to work next week" he announced quietly.

Vince looked up from the threat. "What?"

"Work. I've got to go back to work"

"You have a job?"

Howard regarded him from behind the book. "What's wrong with that?"

Vince gave him an incredulous look. "You mean you've got at least a million pounds hidden somewhere in the house and you still go to work? I thought the point of robbing banks was so that you lived the high life"

"Of course it isn't" Howard said. "I have to have a job, don't I? It's my cover"

Vince nodded slowly. "Right…so why haven't you been going to work?"

"I took three weeks off for a holiday in Stockholm. If anyone calls they get put through to my Aunt Brigitte, who is actually the wife of the boss of the Swedish Mafia"

"Wow! Really?"

"No. She's just a very easily-bribed cleaning lady"

Vince's face fell. "So what _do_ you work as?"

"Small soliciting firm. I'm basically the receptionist"

The mod snickered. "Very classy. You've got to be the weirdest bank robber _ever_"

"And why's that then?"

"You keep all your money stashed under the loose floorboard in the bathroom-"

Howard's head shot up. "How do you know that?" he interrupted.

"Relax, small-eyes, I didn't take any. Count it" Vince grinned. "Plus you have a job. And your house is well understated. If I was you I'd blow it all on a massive party"

"Right, because that wouldn't be suspicious at all"

"You need to loosen up. Stop worrying so much about covering. Enjoy what you do."

"I would be if you weren't around to irritate me and forget my Hula-Hoops"

"You love having me here, really" Vince assured. Howard quirked his eyebrows challengingly.

In the end, Vince's barely-muted digs at Howard's lack of lifestyle grew so unbearable that Howard caved, and bought a brand new laptop off the Internet. For the next two days he silently panicked, feeling that soon enough armed police would come and bash his door down. Eventually, though, the computer arrived, and Howard realized that Apple didn't care what he bought and why. He then sent off for an expensive pair of drainpipe jeans for Vince, choosing to ignore the jibes that would come his way later in the week. Surprisingly, though, when he presented the gift to Vince, the kid didn't say a word, just took them slowly, as if confused by the gesture, and then smiled, thanked Howard and went to change. Howard breathed a sigh of relief and prayed that he'd guessed the right size.

"These are amazing quality" Vince said when he emerged from his bathroom, wearing the jeans and one of Howard's oversized white shirts that ballooned like a tunic over his small frame, nipped in with a belt around the waist (and trust Vince of course to make the most ridiculous outfit work; Howard suspected he could buy the kid a sparkly catsuit and it would somehow look good). "Are they designer?"

"Well…tailored, really" Howard replied, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Vince was quiet, stroking his legs as if sexually attracted to his trousers. Howard wouldn't put it past him. "Um…that's really, er…I mean, you know…"

"Yeah" Howard said. Vince looked up at his face, his small smile beaming.

"I don't usually get-"

"Don't worry about it. You can stop wearing mine now" Howard interrupted. For a moment, it was uncomfortable. But then Howard opened his newest copy of The Guardian and Vince went upstairs to preen in front of a mirror. The red from his hair had been fading, as cheap dye tends to do, and Howard was beginning to see a dark brown colour underneath.

Strange. He had never expected Vince to come over all bashful from a pair of trousers.

The paper was interesting, though. News on the job had been delegated towards a small column towards the back. Apparently this Robert Fossil character was a lunatic who'd been charged for all sort of illegal crap – underground boxing, seedy nightclubs, you name it. The police had, apparently, picked up a few leads. Well, Howard thought, having a lead didn't help when there wasn't a dog attached to it.

Vince came into the room and threw himself down on the chair opposite Howard. He sat awkwardly for a moment, as if unsure of something and embarrassed to be asking.

"Howard?"

The older man tried to ignore him.

"Howard? Howard? Howard? Howard? Howa-"

"What do you want?"

Vince scratched the back of his neck, and began drumming on his legs again. Howard thought privately he could have picked a less annoying tic. "Can I ask you a favour?"

Howard looked up from the paper, suspicion arising. "What?"

Vince took a deep breath, and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Yeah, I don't speak gibberish" Howard sighed. Vince shot him a dark glare. If looks could kill, the kid would be beating him at his own game already. "Go on" he coaxed, "What is it?"

"Will you teach me how to be like you?" Vince said slowly.

Howard frowned. "What, big, tall and Northern?"

"No! A bank robber, you idiot!"

Howard froze. His gaze fixated on Vince's watery, hopeful eyes.

"Absolutely not!" He slammed the newspaper shut, but the crumpling sound it produced was too pathetic to punctuate his point. "What sort of question is that?"

Vince's face fell, dripping into his lap. Howard sighed. "Bloody hell. Two weeks ago you were trying to make a break for it, now you want to…I've known pregnant women with less mood swings than you"

"It was just a joke" his young charge muttered feebly. He was an atrocious liar.

"A joke?" Howard played along. "You're sure that was all? Just a joke"

"Yeah" Vince grinned. But where was the light in his big blue eyes? Not on a spontaneous holiday to Albuquerque, that was for sure.

It was that lack of light that kept Howard on edge for the rest of the day. He wondered what the hell he was doing, and he could practically feel Ken and Ray laughing in his ears. _That'll be ten quid, you Irish cock, 'coz he has gone soft, 'an he? _And, sure, as a group they had had a slightly contemporary way of doing things, but why was the boy still at his house? He needed to get rid of him. It had gone too far. It had gone far enough when the kid left the house. It had gone too far when the kid left his room. It had gone too far when they kept him alive…

"Howard?"

Howard jumped. "Yes? What?"

"Are you alright? 'Coz you've been staring at that wall for ten minutes now"

"I'm fine" he breathed.

He lay in bed that night. It was past midnight – Vince had been locked in at ten like he was in prison rather than a slightly twisted form of house arrest. Howard felt the sheets sticking to every molecule of his body, suffocating, drowning. The blood rushed in his ears. He couldn't relax, couldn't lie still. His plan was there, tangible, but he felt like Tantalus stuck forever between the retreating branches and the receding water.

At 1:29 in the morning, he flung back the covers and got out of bed. His feet left marks in the blue carpet as he padded across the floor to his wardrobe. He pulled on a shirt, a pair of trousers, and some shoes and socks before agitatedly scrambling to his bedside table. He opened the drawer in the table. His gun stared innocently back at him like a poisoned rat, still, black and menacing with three pellets of venomous wrath inside. On top of it lay a pair of black gloves which he pulled on, and then took up the weapon, feeling the dead weight in his hands. Then he pulled his coat off the rack and slipped it on, buttoning it tight against the cool night air, and slipped the gun into the cavernous pockets.

He left his room and made his way silently up the stairs towards Vince's room, silent as the black shadow which draped over the wall and followed him persistently. He unlocked the door, and crept inside. Vince was sprawled out on the bed, sleeping softly, his brown hair spilling onto the pillow. His mouth hung open, emitting little endearing puffs of breath. Howard walked up to him, and placed the gun against his neck, on the soft part just under his ear. Vince didn't stir.

Howard prodded him with the gun. Still nothing. Then he raised the back of his hand, and smacked the younger man hard across the back of the head. Vince's eyes shot open with a jolt. He mumbled something sleeping, and then Howard pressed the gun against his neck and he froze.

"Get up" Howard whispered softly. He pretended not to hear the small whimper that came from Vince's throat as he realized his predicament. The boy sat up slowly, his breathing suddenly erratic. "If you do anything this gun is pointed right at your internal carotid artery. It will kill you. Do you understand me?"

Vince's head twitched twice. His breath shuddered. Breathe in through the mouth slowly and out. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"Alright. Now get up" Vince stood up shakily. He was clad only in a shirt than had been oversized even on Howard. His new jeans were neatly folded in a corner. "Put on your jacket. And your shoes" Vince complied, shivering into his clothes.

He walked behind Vince all the way, close enough so that Vince could feel his breath on the back of his neck and the gun jammed into his neck. When they reached the door, he slipped the gun back into his pocket and pressed it into the small of the kid's back instead. He opened the door, and the two stepped out into the cold air. Howard slipped his hand around the boy's collar, his fist tightening when he felt Vince suddenly squirm. He tutted at the futile effort, and dragged Vince to his own car, a Yarris. He threw the boy into the backseat, and clambered into the front seat, checking around for security cameras, which there was a worrying lack of. He locked the car from the inside, and laid the gun across his lap where Vince couldn't make a hasty grab for it. Then he began to drive.

"W-where are we going?" Vince stuttered. Howard guessed the boy was getting his first full-on taste of terror – after all, last time he had been driving and was hence in a small position of power. Not any more, though.

"You'll see" Howard said.

The motorway was dark but busy. Cars gleaming in their spotlight roared past, containing exhausted people on their way from airports or far-away places. Headlights glimmered in the darkness, lighting up the early morning with burning yellow, orange and red that would mirror the approaching sunrise. There was no sound in the car except for Vince's fidgeting. Howard kept one eye on him from the rearview mirror. He could imagine the thought going through the boy's head right now, and he was sure they were terrifying. He tried to push down the sympathetic thoughts that wrapped and squeezed their way around his heart. Vince was just a man, after all. There wasn't anything special about him. In fact, most of the time he was an infuriating bastard. And he listened to crap music. But, still. It would be difficult.

He was thinking so hard that he almost missed the turning, and so was taken by surprise when it rammed up suddenly. He spat out a swear word, and swerved, hard. He heard a thump as a seatbelt-less Vince was flung against the inside door of the car. He got into the lay-by and stopped the car. An old lady wound down her window and shrieked a string of obscenities at him before driving off. He stuffed the gun back in his pocket and opened the car.

"Get out"

Vince eagerly complied, but Howard was there first and got to a skinny, quivering wrist. The kid was freezing. He looked around him at his surroundings, and laughed bitterly.

"Fucking Little Chef…" he whispered, staring at the garish neon sign. Howard almost laughed out loud. God, who'd want to die here, in the arsehole of the world?

"Come on" he said calmly, his grip tightening. He was worried that Vince's wrist would snap if he held it too hard. He dragged the younger man roughly along the gravel, not listening to the rising and falling of the haggard breathing as Vince sized up and quickly dismissed any opportunities of escape. He pulled him past the fast-food chain, the logo winking menacingly, and down the hill away from the motorway. Vince slipped on the dewy grass in his boots, tottering drunkenly but regaining balance. Then, when they were as far away from the noise of urban life as Howard wanted to be, he stopped, and pushed Vince to the ground. A pair of large azure eyes stared up at him, round and unblinking as they stared into the barrel of the gun.

They stood there for a while, Vince cowering, shading his head and hair with his hands.

"Are you gonna kill me?" he asked eventually, his mockney accent risen with hysteria. Howard didn't reply; just kept an even gaze.

"Are you?" Vince pressed. "I need to…"

"You've been causing me nothing but trouble" Howard said. "I think I have every right to, don't you?"

He took a step forward, and pressed the gun on the bridge of Vince's kinked nose. The boy's eyes crossed comically.

"All this nonsense" Howard continued. "I should take you out right now. Save me a lot of time and money, wouldn't it?"

"Your loss" Vince whispered, almost inaudibly. He swallowed. "I don't wanna die"

"Of course you don't" Howard replied. Death wasn't something that wouldn't come naturally to Vince. He would flicker, like a candle going out, and cause a stir in the air as people gasped and choked at the sudden loss of light. "Who does?"

He jolted the gun and watched as the kid winced.

"Nobody wants to die" he said. "It's not just you, eh? Nobody on this god-forsaken Earth wants to die. What makes you so special?"

Vince didn't reply. There was water on his cheeks.

"You're just one person. You're just a cocky little arsehole from fucking Camden who always gets on my rag and listens to crap music and talks a whole load of irritating bullshit" His voice was monotone, eerily calm. "You're nothing special, are you? Are you?"

Vince shook his head. Howard, finally, lowered the gun.

"So why don't you just fuck off home and leave me in peace? You'll turn up and no one will care. You'll just blend right back in and I'll carry on with my life, alright?" He stuck the firearm, sticky and melting in his sweaty hand, back into his pocket. Vince gasped.

"Is that it, then? I just get to go home? No harm done?"

"No harm done" Howard agreed. "Unless you make sure it's coming to you"

"No"

Howard froze. Vince was still quaking, but his face had set defiantly. "I beg your pardon?"

"No. I'm not going back to that fucking place. I hate it"

"Will you stop behaving like a petulant teenager? Think about it. You get what you want. I get what I want. End of fucking story"

"That's not what I want" Vince breathed.

Howard took his gun out again. "What? You want this?"

Slowly, Vince nodded. "Yeah. At least then something exciting will have happened to me. But I can't, I just can't go back to that. Not after all this. I can't"

"Alright then" Again, the contact of metal on flesh. The kid's eyes shut.

There was a pause. Nothing. Cautiously, Vince opened one eye.

"Oh, for fuck's sake…"

The words were resigned. The gun hit the floor with a thud softer than a wet sponge. Vince released the sigh that had corked up his throat like a champagne bottle. Then he coiled up his whole body, and sprung himself at Howard. The older man almost fell back as the skinny frame smashed against his, waves against a Whitstable shoreline, arms bent and twisted around his neck, a face buried into his shoulder and Vince sobbing, sobbing…

"Don't…touch…" Howard muttered futilely.

"Don't do that, you fucking wanker!" Vince growled, long brown hair striking against Howard's neck. "Don't you ever fucking do that to me ever again, alright?"

And Howard had no choice but to awkwardly place a hand on the little man's back and promise that he wouldn't.

* * *

They fell asleep in the car; Vince curled up on the back seats like a cat, knees tight against his pointy chin. Despite his lack of sleep, Howard sat in the front seat, rubbing a hand over his exhausted face and feeling wrinkles embolden on his face and wondering what the _fuck_ he had ever done to deserve this. The sun rose over the M2, squirming in under Howard's eyelids and rushing up to burn in his mind, filling the dark sky with the first slivers of colour and light of the day. Howard glanced at his watch. It was four am. Then, with a tired sigh, he started the car and began the drive back to his home.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note – Ok, people. It's crunch time. I need to ask you a favour. I have put "Romance" under the second genre of this story because that's what I originally intended it to be. However, it has come to my attention that the pairing may not be as popular as I originally thought and as it is such a particular romance I am worried about mucking the story up by using it. Therefore, I am putting it to a majority vote – pairing or no pairing? Please leave feedback in a review. Or any feedback. I am welcome to criticism (after all, it's partially what I'm here for) so please don't be shy of suggesting things. But enough rambling. Enjoy the show. (And, chronology fans, the date underneath is the same 7 years from now!)**_

**Monday 18****th**** October 2003**

The phone rang. Howard glared at it suspiciously. Then he picked it up.

"Hello, you're through to Clarkwell and Co Solicitors, how may I be of assistance?"

"_You sound well posh when you're on the phone_" came the suppressed giggle. Howard swore under his breath, and looked around him at the empty room.

"How the fuck did you get this number?"

"_Well it weren't difficult to find_" Vince protested. "_It was on your bills_"

"Wasn't. And why the hell were you going through my bills?"

"_Coz I'm bored!_"

"Oh, that's a surprise. I wasn't expecting that. What do you want me to do about it?"

"_I dunno. Just talk to me_" There was an odd crunching noise.

"What are you eating?" Howard asked wearily.

"_Coco Pops_"

Howard paused for a moment. "I don't buy Coco Pops"

"_No shit. I bought them. The only cereal you had in your cupboard was Sugar Puffs and I have a supernatural fear of the Honey Monster_"

"…Don't you mean an irrational fear?"

"_Oh yeah, that's the one_"

Howard shook his head. "Well, that odd piece of information aside, I have a few questions. One: where did you get the money, and two: I locked you in; how did you go out?"

"_Yeah, about that, you need to give me a key_"

"Just answer the questions"

"_Well, I got the money from your stash – it's all in tenners, would you believe? You're down to only nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-eight-point-zero-five now. And the spare key was under your doormat. You should hide it somewhere better. Anyone could break in_"

"Ha-ha. Could you not discuss my private life over the phone, please?"

"_Sure, whatever_"

"And I'm going to need to hang up now; there might be important calls waiting"

"_Trust me, this'll be the most important call you'll get all day. What time do you get off?_"

Howard glanced at his watch. "Er…about 5:30." The door in front of his desk opened, and a young woman came in. She took off her coat and red scarf and hung it on a hook, and smiled at him. He covered the end of the phone with his hand.

"Morning, Clara" he said.

"Nicholas" his co-worker returned. Ah, the old name. "How was Stockholm?"

"Lovely, thanks. Shame to come back to this"

He could hear vibrations on the other end of the line, and so picked it up again: "What?"

"_Charming. I'll meet you in the Old Neptune at 5:45 then_"

"What is this, a conspiracy?"

"_Maybe. Are you going to be there or not_?"

"Yes, alright. Just to shut you up"

"_See you later_"

"Yeah, yeah, piss off" the northerner grumbled and put the phone down. Clara gave him a funny look. She was young, and attractive with her nutmeg hair and spectacles. He had harbored a bit of a fancy for her, long ago, but knew it would have been a foolish mistake to pursue it.

"Please tell me that was a client" she said. Howard smiled.

"Unfortunately, no. My nephew. Vince. He's staying with me for a bit. Annoying little git"

"Ah" Clara nodded.

"How goes your work this fair morn?"

"Eeurgh. Dreadful. I'll speak to you later, alright?"

Howard smiled sweetly at her and blocked his home number from the phone.

* * *

Howard didn't approve of Vince's choice of meeting place. For starters, he never liked to drink in public; he always ended up making an idiot of himself, and even if he did, the Old Neptune was hardly the place where he wanted to alter that habit. The pub was on the seafront, and was full of locals on weekdays and tourists on weekends, and each group was as irksome as the other. It being a Monday night, he almost found himself being accosted by one of the locals, a drunken artist whose work seemed to consist entirely of gluing shells onto random objects, as soon as he stepped in the door promptly at six fifteen – he'd forced himself to work slightly overtime just to spite his younger companion. Vince waved him over from a darkened table in the corner.

"You're a bit bloody late" he reprimanded. "I've been sitting here for half an hour. I kept phoning your office; didn't you get my calls?"

"Oh…must've missed them" Howard replied unconvincingly. Vince shook his head and pushed a pint towards him. Howard took a grateful gulp, and looked, really _looked_ at the younger man.

"What the hell have you done to your hair?"

Vince smiled, and combed his fingers through his new jet-black locks. "I went to a hairdresser. D'you like it?"

"For Christy's sake, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile!" Howard hissed. Vince's eyes darkened. "But it's nice, I mean…black. It suits you"

The ex-cab-driver beamed, and took a sip of a flamboyant-looking cocktail that Howard dared not question. "Thanks for noticing"

"What name did you give her?"

Vince frowned: "You what?"

"The hairdresser. What did you say your name was"

Vince frowned; shrugged. "I didn't. Just paid and left"

"Good" Howard nodded. "You'll need a new name. For being in public"

"Oh, right" Vince replied, cottoning on a lot faster than he usually did. His face crinkled in concentration. "I'll be…Jones"

"No, you can't be Jones, I'm Jones. Nicholas Jones"

"Oh, bugger off. Alright. Er…ooh, I know – Dan Ashcroft!"

Howard thought for a moment. "Yeah, that could work" He sipped his beverage and wiped the foam of his stubble-roughened chin with the back of his hand. "So why did you want to come here anyway? What's the occasion?"

Vince shrugged; slurped his drink. "Nothin', really. But I did want to say that my proposal still stands. You know…if you're ok with it"

"What are you talking about? What proposal?"

"You know…" Vince squirmed uncomfortably. "What I said before. I still want you to teach me about how to do all the stuff that you do and-"

His sentence was interrupted by Howard smacking his forehead hard down on the wooden table, prompting a loud clang that turned a few of the heads closest to them. He raised it slowly, nutmeg-eyes narrowed.

Vince smirked. "I hope that hurt"

"Look, Vince…" Howard started desperately, but was cut off.

"I know what you're gonna say" Vince said in a hushed whisper. "You're gonna say that it's impossible, that it's dangerous, all that bullshit, but just listen for a moment. I been thinking about it. I made a plan pony and everything. I'll stay at the house in the day. I can live with being bored for a bit. Then, when you get home, you can tell me how it's all done. Then maybe you can take me with you. I could be useful. I know I could. I could be, like, your accessory. I'll be the beige trilby to your trench-coat, yeah? Just gimme a chance. I know I could do it"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because…well, because…" Howard spluttered. Vince gave him a triumphant look. "Because everything you just said is ridiculous. We'd be putting ourselves at risk and we'd be putting other people at risk. We'd be found out. Just think it through, alright?"

"I have thought it through"

"I'm not a bloody tutor, Vince"

"You're not joking. You're like a supply teacher at a drum and bass convention"

"_What_?"

"Please, Howard! You can't keep locking me up like an animal"

"Piss off then; leave me in peace for a change"

"That ain't happening" Vince frowned. "Is this it, then? Where are we going, Howard?"

"We're not going anywhere! This is my life, Vince. I know you think it's flashy and exciting, but most of the time I go to work and then come home and that's it"

Vince leant forward across the table. "But if you're teaching me, then it could be like that all the time. Don't you see?"

The younger man's eyes gleamed. He widened them slightly, and hunched himself over the table in a pleading stance. Howard sighed, his own shrewish eyes darting to avoid meeting the pathetic but hooking gaze and thus sealing the invisible contract between them. It came down to a few simple truths here, which he did not wish in any way to relate to the boy sitting opposite him. He didn't care about the excitement. That was a young man's game, and the business had been a cruel mistress, stealing away the best years of his life before it had even started. No, the rush that he had once felt when gazing down the black abyss of a gun barrel was long gone. But he had no need for the money either – his perfectly middle-class house proved that. What he needed was the companionship, the recognition that being an outlaw brought with it. It was the fact that Ray and Ken_ needed_ him in order to pull off more and more daring heists. It was the fact that even though people didn't know his name, they knew who he was and they recognized his achievements. That was all he'd ever wanted, ever since he was little and had been a loner sitting in the corner of a small playground in a Leeds primary school reading a book on the history of Jazz. His methods had been unconventional, but so what? And he knew that that need to be acknowledged was something that Vince, with his bright black hair and the easy, childlike charm that casually sauntered in his veins, could never understand.

But he was breaking. There was no denying it.

"Howard? Please, Howard!"

Without speaking, Howard grabbed the cocktail from under Vince's lopsided nose and placed it on the floor next to him.

"What are you doing?" Vince demanded. Howard met his eyes.

"Rule one. No drink"

Vince's eyes flashed, and he reached out over the table to no avail to grab at his vanishing glass. "You bumbaklaat! I paid for that!"

"With my money. Come on, let's go. I can't stand it in here"

He pushed at the floor with the heels of his boots and the wood scraped noisily against the floorboards. Vince's eyes followed him up.

"Wait, so does that mean…?"

"Maybe. Come on"

Howard strode out the door, pausing and turning when he didn't hear Vince's skittering feet behind him. The younger man had halted to finish off his drink. Howard rolled his eyes, and started off along the beach, following the coastline. The waves lapped drunkenly at the shore. Then he heard the staggering crunch behind him, and he twisted his neck. Vince's red Chelsea boots were scuffed and stained with sand and the grey residue of chalky stone. Howard stuffed his hands into his pockets, and waited for him to catch up.

"Thanks for waiting" Vince called. "These shoes are shite for the beach. I think I should get some more. Maybe you could give me an allowance"

"What, pocket money?" Howard scoffed playfully. "Grow up" He paused; frowned at his companion. "How old are you, anyway?"

Vince puffed at the effort of maneuvering his body over the pebbles. "Real age or press age?"

"What?"

Vince gave him a pointed look. Howard sighed wearily. "Alright. Real age"

"Thirty" the kid grinned. "But I say twenty four"

"Piss off; you're never thirty"

Vince raised his eyebrows.

"You're serious? Thirty? Bloody hell…"

"Exactly! You could do a profile for me" Howard watched him, bemused, as he stopped, and struck a pose as if caught in a spotlight, adopting a deeper voice. "Vince Noir. Thirty. Taxi driver. Fashion victim"

"Electro poof" Howard supplied helpfully. He was ignored.

"That's what my life amounts to" Vince said, snapping back into reality. "I bet yours is better"

Howard laughed, and decided to play along. He struck a pose, visualizing an audience of thousands in front of him. Vince took the voice again to supply the voiceover: "Howard Moon. Jazz maverick" Howard mimed playing a saxophone, and Vince doubled in a fit of giggles, caught off his guard. His voice lowered to a whisper, even though the beach was empty and the noise was almost lost on the wind. "Bank robber. Outlaw. Criminal mastermind. With the tiny eyes of a shrew – it's Howard Moon, everybody!"

"Oi!" Howard laughed, breaking out of his reverie.

"Your CV's a bit bulkier than mine" Vince smiled. "You've seen mine; there's nothing on it. You live your life. I drive dickheads around London for a living"

"People live differently. That's all"

They walked in a comfortable silence back to the house. Upon getting in, Howard hung his work jacket up, sat down on the plush living-room sofa, and opened his book.

"Hey!"

He looked up. "Yes?"

"You said you'd teach me, remember?"

"No I didn't. I said I _might_. Big difference"

"You Jack of Clubs!" Vince grinned disbelievingly. "You made me miss my Flirtini"

"Yeah. No drinking. That should be given for anybody"

Vince raised an eyebrow. "Lightweight, are you?"

"Piss off!"

"So, are you going to teach me or not?"

"You're a persistent little bugger, aren't you?"

"Yep. _Are_ you?"

"Maybe!" Howard sighed. "God, it's better than no. Can't I read in peace for five minutes?"

Vince squirmed in his chair. He slid his boots off, and tucked his bare feet up under his knees, massaging warmth into them with his hands. Howard shook his head and returned to the book. The room was plunged into silence, with only Vince's agitated pattering rhythm of his hands on the arms of the chair the only noise to be heard. Howard frowned, and ignored him, and carried on with his book. He'd moved onto the second part of the series now and was relishing it:

_Down the Strafford stairs and out the door, blue lights on the black sky, sirens on the wind. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Running, fucked forever – the takings of the till, the pickings of their bloody pockets. Fuck, fuck, fuck…_

"It's been five minutes"

Howard raised his head slowly. "What?"

"You've been reading in peace for five minutes. I've been timing you"

Vince grinned, and Howard fumed.

"You've got to be joking! That was four sentences! Right, fuck this"

He stood up and threw his book on the sofa. Vince looked slightly nervous as Howard left the room and stormed out into the hallway. He made his way to the telephone opposite the table with the wooden cat, and hurled out the thin drawer on the shelf. He removed from the drawer a black biro and a small WH Smiths notebook. Then he walked back into the sitting room and threw them at Vince. The thirty-year-old ducked with a yelp of surprise.

"What're you doing, you great Northern pillock? You could've had me eye out!"

"Lesson one" Howard said firmly, sitting himself down heavily on the sofa. "Planning and Preparing: An Introduction to the Art of Bank Robbery"

Vince scrabbled to pick the book and pen off the floor where they had fallen. "Fuckin' hell" he scoffed. "You've prepared a bloody itinerary, haven't you?"

"If I'd had the time, yes" Howard replied truthfully. "Take notes. This is advanced stuff"

"Take notes?" Vince cried incredulously.

"Yes, notes. If you forget anything; anything can lead to your downfall. One wrong step, one misjudged movement and you're gone, sir. Finished"

"Alright, fine…"

"Ok. Let's begin" Howard started. Then he stopped. Then he opened his mouth and closed it again. The red flag that had been signaling in his brain had finally been noticed, and he realized with a jolt that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Vince was looking at him expectantly and he didn't know where to begin.

"Well…right, so…"

"You don't have a clue what you're on about, do you?"

Howard's shoulders slumped. "Not really, no"

"Start from the beginning" Vince prompted eagerly. "Tell me about what happened on your first time"

"You make it sound like losing your bank heist virginity"

Vince smiled, his lips pressed together but drawing like a curtain over his whole face and showering it with sunlight. "It kinda is. You're corrupting my innocence"

Howard stopped for a moment. "It's hard" Vince snickered and he smiled at the joke. "Discontinuing the metaphor, you idiot. It's difficult. I'm not lying to you, here. I mean, are you sure? Are you really, really sure that you want to do this?"

There was no pause. "Never been surer of anything, small-eyes"

"Right" Howard pressed his palms together and placed them under over his lips in a stance of contemplation. "Ok. The first thing you need to know about when heisting banks is your target. That alone is hard enough. You need to know your centre of attack, and how to approach it. Say…" He picked up his book and placed it on the seat next to him. "Say this is your target. You can't just go in guns blazing, yeah? You need to be able to familiarize yourself with your entrances and your exits; know every possible route of escape and which to take in every possible scenario. It's all a game. You need to be able to plan everything in advance so that you know everything, and you need to take into account everything that could go wrong"

Vince looked blank. Howard sighed. "It's like…say you were standing in the centre of a Lloyds TSB" he stabbed at the centre of the book with his index finger. "Here. And the alarms are going off and people are screaming. And you have three exits: here, here and here. If you take that one then you go up the stairs and onto the roof. If you take that one then you go into the basement. And that one's the main entrance. Which do you take?"

Vince studied the book for a moment. His face was intent; his brow pulled right down over his eyes, which darted purposefully over the book as if he were visualizing the entire scenario before him. He breathed slowly in concentration. Then his hand flicked out, quick as a hummingbird, and placed itself directly on the corner of the book: "That one"

"Ah, the basement" Howard said enigmatically. "Why?"

"Closest to the car park" Vince said slowly, and Howard could practically see this boy's brain cell working overtime. "Easy getaway"

"Nice choice" Howard nodded. "Wrong one, though"

Vince's face fell.

"What?"

"Car park's on the top floor. You'd be as good as trapped in a box"

"That's not fair" Vince protested sullenly. "You didn't tell me that"

Howard leant forward. "Exactly" he said. "You need to know everything about this place. You need to know it like the back of your hand…or your hair"

Vince's eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh, yeah!"

"Good. Because then, once you know all of that, you can map out your route. How you are going to get in, and more importantly, how you are going to get out. Then you can take into account all the other stuff"

Vince scribbled a few bits and pieces onto the notepad. "Genius!"

Howard gently smiled. He was surprised at just how much he was enjoying this. He was never much of a people person. People made him feel awkward and he always seemed to hover at the end of conversations – which probably explained why his two best friends were completely dysfunctional but he wasn't about to delve into his own psyche; if he wanted a therapist he'd bloody well pay for one. He preferred his own company, more or less, which was why he was somewhat shocked by the feeling that teaching Vince gave him. The look of, dare he say it, admiration in Vince's eyes and the sensation that he was being looked up to was something that he had spent his whole life struggling to achieve.

"So what's next?"

Howard scratched at his chin. He could feel stubble beginning to show. Maybe he should think about growing a moustache?

"Um…let's go onto preparation. There are only really three things that you need when robbing a bank: a weapon, a plan and some bleach. The plan is probably the most important. Apart from your entrances and your exits, you need to understand how much money you're aiming to get, how you're going to get out if all goes right, and how you get a hold of the goods. Note jobs are the easiest and most efficient way to go about things"

"What's one of them? Like a hand job?"

"_No_! It's when you write a statement on a bit of paper and hand it to the person at the desk. It means nobody gets into a blind panic. If that fails, which is unlikely, it's probably time to use the second necessity – a weapon. The best thing to do at this point is probably to take a hostage. The nearest person to you will do – but this is important; you _need_ to let them know that nobody will be hurt. Don't point your gun at a child, even accidentally, because the last thing you need is a protective mother trying to scratch your eyes out, believe me. Once you've got the money, you get straight out and leave your hostage behind. It's as simple as that"

Vince smirked, his eyes sneaking upwards. "That went well for you, didn't it?"

"Shut it. That job went tits-up in every way possible"

A grimace of offense flashed over Vince's face. For a tense moment, Howard wanted badly to reply; to assure the little man that he honestly didn't mean it like that.

"Bleach?" Vince asked after a tense moment.

"Yes. That brings us to part three: attire"

Vince's face lit up. "Brilliant!"

"Don't get too excited. You need to stick to simple. Anything black is good. You need to make sure every part of your body is covered to prevent any traces of DNA being picked up, so you need gloves, balaclavas, socks, boots…and a massive coat is always good"

"How about a cape?"

"No. No capes"

"Why not? It'll be genius! A black, feathery cape. It can billow at your ankles and make you look threatening, yeah? Or you could use it to cover your face. Or a Venetian Mask!"

"The last thing you think about when bank robbing is if you look good, Vince"

Vince frowned slightly, lowering his hand from his cheek where he had been demonstrating a Zorro-like disguise. "I always think about looking good"

"I know you do. But there's no glamour in this. The balaclava will destroy your hair"

Pure anguish crossed Vince's face for a moment. He looked as if someone had died. Howard rolled his eyes: "It's all about practicality. But once you get back, it gets important, because you need to be able to destroy any traces of evidence that you may have on you. Hence: bleach. Or any washing powder. That means that if your alibi falls through they can't pin anything on you"

"I have a question" Vince muttered, waving his arm in the air in a satirical attempt at a classroom scenario.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Well, you keep going on about getting out, but how exactly does that work?"

"You need a vehicle to be kept in a nondescript place, preferably one with no security cameras, and you need to be able to reach it quickly and efficiently and know your route to a tee"

Vince smiled. "Or just tell the cabbie where to go, eh?"

Howard paused for a moment and wondered whether to address with Vince the issue that he had been skirting around since the beginning of the whole sorry business. The younger man registered the silence, and the grin on his face gradually began to fade. "Howard?"

"There isn't a driver" Howard said after a while. "There's never a driver. We rely on our own wits to move around. That's why you need to plan a route from-"

"What do you mean there's not a driver?" Vince said slowly. "What about me?"

Howard sighed. "Listen, there wasn't meant to be a you. Ray was going to drive us in and wait in the car for us, but we broke down unexpectedly halfway through the city. We didn't have any other options"

"So you just grabbed the first taxi you saw, eh?" Vince said coldly. Howard's stomach plummeted to the floor at the look on his protégé's face.

"Well…yes, but-"

"So this was all an accident, then?"

"Look, Vince-"

"Get stuffed, crab-eyes" Vince muttered darkly, and then he stood up and stalked out of the room. Howard groaned and rested his head in his hands, mumbling swear words against the puffy flesh of his palms as he listened to the sound of Vince climbing the stairs and slamming the door of his bedroom. Even though it was silly, he should've known the kid would take offence.

Then the phone rang. The sound bounced around the living room and down Howard's throat. He glanced at the digital clock on the DVD player – seven o' clock. Exactly seven. Who in _fuck's_ name was ringing at exactly seven bloody o' clock?

Howard heaved himself up from the sofa, and grabbed the phone.

"Hello?" he tried tentatively.

"_Alright, Howard! Long time no speak, eh?_"

Howard sighed in relief. "Bit precise for you, isn't it?"

"_What you on about?_"

"This calling at exactly seven lark. Too similar to the movies"

"…_Fuck off, Moon_"

"Charming stuff, Ray" Howard sighed. "Look, I'm a little busy right now…"

"_I just wanted a chat with me partner in crime. What crawled up your arse and died_?"

"Alright, alright. What do you want then?"

"_Just a catch up, eh? Me and Ken been having a right laugh down in London. Blew a couple of grand on a nice Rolex. Few nights out, couple of girls. You're missing a trick, mate, stuck up there in Kent_"

"Yeah, well, that's not really my scene anymore, is it?"

"_Suit yourself, tight-arse_"

"Why are you calling, Ray? You're not in any trouble, are you?"

"_Don't get your panties in a twist; we're fine. Few police came sniffing around, but nothing major. I'll give you one thing, though_"

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"_You've still got the magic touch, Howard. You must've scared that kid good and proper, 'coz we aint heard nothing from him_"

Howard sighed deeply, letting the air fill him up like a lead balloon. "Yeah, about that…"

"_What? Speak up, mate, reception on O2 is fucked_"

"I said, about that…" Howard took a deep breath. "He might still be here"

There was a heart stopping moment of silence.

"_What?_"

Howard lowered his voice to a whisper, knowing how well sound travelled in his house. "Look, I couldn't get him to leave, alright. I tried, believe me I tried, but it just wasn't happening and he's still here"

"_It's been two fucking weeks, Howard_"

"Yeah, I know that"

"_What the fuck did you do that for_?"

Howard wasn't entirely sure. He didn't think that "Vince has given me some sort of hope for my pathetic life" would quite cut it when it came to his homicidal friend. Instead, he settled for: "He's an alright bloke, Ray. He's not going to do anything"

"_Jesus, Moon…_"

"But, wait, I've got this figured out. I can train him up, right? Use him. He's a quick learner, I guarantee you that. He could be useful"

"_Alright_"

Howard frowned. "Come again?"

"_I said alright. Christy. It's not as if you need my permission, is it_?"

"Oh, thank God…"

"_But if he fucks up, Moon, it's on your head, right_"

"Absolutely"

"_Does this mean I have to give Ken back his ten quid_?"

"Oh, piss off"

"_Gladly. Catch you later, Howard_"

"Oh, wait, Ray, one thing!"

On the other end of the line, Ray heaved a sigh. "_What_?"

Howard squeezed his eyes shut in prayer. "You don't happen to still have the car, do you?"

"_What, that old shitbox? It's a wreck, mate. Fucked. I had two girls in there yesterday-_"

"Oh, God, spare me the details"

"_What you want it for_?"

"No reason. Bye, Ray"

"_Bye_"

Howard put the phone down with a sigh and went to stand at the window. The sky was already beginning to darken, and the pale moon lay flat against the sky, shrouded with blue clouds as if it was a mistake that someone had tried to scribble out. He stared at it for a while. A seagull perched on the outside windowsill, and preened its feathers in a Vince-like fashion. Howard wasn't sure when he'd stopped comparing Vince to things and started comparing things to Vince. He sat down again. His head lolled onto his shoulder, and he eventually fell into a light snooze.

There came the sudden noise of somebody moving around in Howard's kitchen, to which he awoke with a start. The gull had flown away. A quick glance at the clock assured him that it was already half past eight. He sat up on the chair, and ran a hand across his face. Then he stood up, and went to investigate. Vince was standing at the stove, a mask of intent concentration plastered to his face, watching with a degree of uncertainty two small saucepans which were simmering on the hob. Howard leant against the wall behind the doorway, anxious of whether or not he should intrude. Vince made a little huffing noise, and strode to the other end of the kitchen out of Howard's sight. There was a clatter of china, and then the younger man returned with two plates. He looked towards the door, and jumped.

"_Jagger_! I didn't see you there!" he gasped, placing the plates on the counter and clutching a hand to his heart. Howard crept through the doorway and stood in the light. Vince switched off the gas, and stood proudly for a moment over his concoction. Then he grabbed a wooden spoon and scraped it out into the plates.

"What's that?" Howard asked warily. "I didn't think you could cook"

"I can't" Vince replied. "These were the only things in your kitchen that didn't require me to start from scratch"

He offered a plate to Howard, who gingerly took it. It was a plate of white buttery rice with a dip in the middle that Vince had filled with fluorescent Heinz baked beans. He looked at the meal in awkward astonishment, and then up at Vince, who was wringing a tea-towel between his fingers.

Howard frowned. "Wait…you cooked a meal?"

Vince shrugged. "Yeah"

"You cooked_ rice_ with _baked beans_?"

"Problem?"

"No, no…"

Howard looked from the food to Vince's anxious face. Then, slowly, he took a food from the counter, and ate a mouthful. He had been expecting the worst, but the dish was surprisingly edible, and cooked well for something so basic.

"It's alright" he said, swallowing. Vince's eyes gleamed with a throttling insistency. "Thanks"

"I'm sorry, yeah?" the younger man blurted. "I was bang out of order. I know you didn't mean anything by it"

Howard sighed. "It's alright, little man. I'm sorry too…what?"

Vince was giggling to himself: "What did you just call me?"

"Nothing!"

"You called me little man"

"Slip of the tongue" Howard protested. Vince sobered, and looked at him.

"No. Keep it. It's genius"

"Right. Well…shall we eat?"

Vince grinned and bounced like a terrier over to the doorway to Howard's side. "Yeah. Alright"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Note – I would like to give major credit to the writers of "In Bruges" for some elements in this chapter. It's a wonderful film and I highly recommend it, but the quotes in there were made for stealing for Fanfics, seriously. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, however, and it's a bit shorter than I would have liked and I'm not too sure of it. I spent most of my time re-watching episodes, and then realized that the little men at the beginning of the Boosh intro are mini versions of Rudi. Anyway. I own nothing. Enjoy.**_

**Sunday 22****nd**** October 2003**

"Where are we going?"

Howard sighed. "Just get in the bloody car, will you?"

Vince folded his arms and fixed him with a glare. "Yeah, last time we were in this situation I thought you were going to blow my brains out"

"Firstly, where on my person would I be hiding a weapon; secondly, this is the middle of the day; thirdly, you're sitting in the front seat; fourth…"

"Oh, God! Fine!"

Vince opened the door, and reluctantly clambered into the car, tripping on the ledge in his new boots, which were a shiny, metallic silver. Howard immensely disapproved of the new boots.

He hoisted himself into the driver's seat and strapped himself in. Vince had already opened the glove compartment and was shuffling suspiciously through Howard's CDs, occasionally omitting a little hum of approval. Howard started the car and reversed out of the driveway. It was only when they turned off the roundabout and onto the motorway that Vince looked up.

"So where are we going?"

"It's a surprise" Howard muttered tonelessly.

"Is it really?" Vince replied sarcastically. "Don't matter; I remember all this. We're just going back towards London. Are we going back to London?"

"Shut up" Howard said half-heartedly, with a small smile.

"You can stop saying that, you know. If I stopped talking it'd drive you mad"

"You not talking sounds like a dream"

Although, in all honesty, Vince was right. There _was_ something reassuring, something comforting in his inane chatter. It came as naturally to the younger bloke as breathing. If Vince stopped breathing, he died. If Vince stopped talking, who knew?

Vince squinted against the sun at a road sign as it hurtled towards them. "Fa-ver-sham?" he muttered, syllable by syllable. "Why're we going to Faversham?"

"Be quiet and you'll find out"

"I don't like being quiet"

"Really?"

"Mm" Vince replied, happily oblivious to the sarcasm. "I think I'm a bit scared of it, actually. I can't sleep unless there's someone moving around downstairs or there's a boiler on or something like that"

"Fascinating stuff"

"Oi, watch it" Vince grinned, pushing gently against Howard's shoulder. Howard laughed, and the sound filled the car with its warm smokiness.

"_You_ watch it, sir. Or I'll come at you"

"Will you now?"

"Like a breezeblock of pain. I'll come at you like a ray, like a beam, like a buzzard"

The laughter eventually ran out and the two fell into an easy silence. Howard contemplated how sinister the conversation had become. They were bantering about violence, for crying out loud, and Howard dealt in violence. When did it all become so…fun? When had he stopped caring quite so much about being serious? Howard supposed the answer to that was sitting next to him, wearing a ridiculous pair of shoes and a white cowboy hat (to match the scarf, obviously) and tapping out the rhythm of a Numan song on his legs.

"Here in my car…" Vince sang under his breath, swaying rhythmically from side to side. His eyes were slightly glazed, as if subconscious. "I feel safest of all. I can lock all the doors. It's the only way to live, in cars…" He straightened suddenly. "That's probably why I'm a taxi driver. Shit knows I don't do it for the cash. Cars are always noisy, eh?"

Howard didn't know what to make of the nonsensical rant.

"Where are we now? Napleton Road?" Vince said nonchalantly, and Howard shrugged slowly back into reality. The car made a right turn, and slid into a parking space.

Faversham was a town where each house looked like a second home, all pastel colours and windowsill flower boxes. It was a cold day. The sky was a lilac-grey colour that spread like a sheet over the atmosphere with no break; a single mass of colour. The wind swept along the empty streets and thundered through the bones of the two men as they got out of the car. Howard shivered, wishing he'd put on something warmer. Vince was wearing one of his green jackets, but had zipped it right up so that it puffed out in front of his nonexistent stomach (Howard smiled fondly to see the badges pinned to the front), and a normal pair of blue jeans. He looked at him.

"Come on" Howard said. Vince nodded.

They set off down the road, bodies flat out against the bitter October wind. Vince's shoulders hunched over and his lips quavered with the cold, his eyes darting around as he took in the unfamiliarity of the town. The cold was heavy, but not damp, and the breeze piercing. They turned right into Fielding Street, and Howard gazed at the doors as they passed them.

"Where are we going?" Vince asked again, two paces behind.

"Almost there" came the reply.

"Oh, yeah, that's useful. Cheers"

"Is that a trace of sarcasm I detect, Vincent?"

Vince's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me that. I fucking hate it"

"Fair enough. Here we are"

Howard stopped outside one of the houses. It was almost entirely indiscernible from the rest on the street, with a plain white exterior and neat demeanor. Next to him, Vince wrinkled his nose. Howard pressed on the doorbell, and the sound reverberated through the house. There was the shuffling sound of footsteps on a wooden floor, and then the door opened. A woman opened the door, and gazed suspiciously at Howard.

"Morning, ma'am" Howard said politely. "Howard Moon. I'm looking for Harry Waters?"

"Oh, right" the woman said, with a bored, nasal tone. "Come on in, then"

She led the pair through the hallway, and into the living room. Then she retreated, and screamed: "_Harry_!" up the stairs before disappearing completely, Vince wincing at her voice.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

"Don't worry, little man" Howard replied, sensing the quick and anxious tone of his protégé's voice. Vince frowned, and settled back on the paisley sofa. Then there was the sound of hard shoes on the creaking stairs, a purposeful and powerful step, and then a man entered the room. His straggly blonde hair hung limp over his shoulders, and he was clad in a black dressing-gown. He had a sharp, shark-like face and a white scar that trailed from his right eye to his chin. He grinned sharply at Howard.

"'Oward Moon!" he greeted, and Howard stood up to shake the pale, clammy hand that was offered to him. His voice had a full and rounded Cockney brogue, more pronounced than Vince's, and trembled slightly as if he would burst out into manic laughter any minute. "It's been a while, squire. What brings you to my humble abode?"

Howard sat back down next to Vince, and gestured to the boy. "I need something for my partner here. Something solid and practical"

Harry scratched his chin, staring hard at Vince, who barely repressed a shudder. Howard desperately wanted to comfort him and to tell him that Waters was not a bad guy. But then, of course, that would be a lie. What to tell when perceptions of right and wrong were hoisted up and dangled by their ankles? "Smith and Wesson do? That's what I sold you, boy. Right back when you were just a small fry playing with the eels"

Howard shook his head dismissively. "Too powerful. He's a beginner"

"Right, right…" Harry muttered. He scratched his balding head as if he had lice. "Jericho 941? Just in, newest model. Very nice. I'll do it cheap for you, mind"

"A Jericho?" Howard sighed. "If I wanted to shoot twelve children from a Tescos rooftop, then maybe, but I just…" he sighed at the coming irony: "I just want a normal gun for a normal person, alright?"

Harry's leaden eyes sharpened like the tips of a pencil. "Let me put you in the picture, boy. I ain't got a lot of time on my hands, but coz I like you I'll make an exception for your case. But don't get shirty with me, Moon. I don't like to be made a fool of"

Next to Howard, Vince bristled at the barely-disguised threat. Howard didn't look at him. He just nodded his head. Harry leant back in his chair with a satisfied smile.

"I got one more offer for you. A Browning. 9x19 millimeter Hi-Power. She's a sweet one, I'm telling you. A pretty one for your lady-boy" He ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Let's have a look" Howard said. Without leaving the chair, Waters reached over to a cabinet that stood behind him, opened a drawer and withdrew a Tescos shopping bag. He handed it to Howard, who took it, and revealed a shiny silver gun from within the crinkly plastic. He examined it from all angles.

"It's very nice" he said eventually, replacing it into the bag. "What do you-?"

"Alright, sweetheart?" Harry said suddenly. Howard frowned at the surprising sentiment before realizing that Harry was not looking to him, nor to Vince, but at a little blonde girl who stood scowling in the doorway.

"No" she pouted. Harry's face took on a look of sympathy.

"Aw, what's wrong, darling?"

"Jim won't let me play with his Lego" she whined.

"Well, Jackie, tell Jim to share or Daddy'll come upstairs an' sort it out, yeah?"

The little girl smiled brightly, and skipped off. Harry turned back to the men. Howard blinked slowly, and then met Harry's steely gaze.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked.

"Two-fifty should do it" the man said. Howard delved into his coat pocket and withdrew a couple of notes and handed it to the man. Harry smiled, and placed the notes back in the drawer and closed it. The drawer jammed. He wrestled with it for a moment.

"Fucking piece of IKEA _shite_!" he growled. The woman appeared in the doorway, her face pale and exhausted.

"Harry" she said patiently. "Harry, it's an inanimate fucking object"

"_You're_ an inanimate _fucking_ object!" Harry roared.

Howard and Vince took this as their cue to leave.

* * *

"Bloody hell" Vince said as the motorway whizzed past. "I thought _our_ domestics were bad"

Howard chuckled. "Yeah, sorry about that"

"S'alright" Vince said with a shining grin. "So…a gun, eh?"

"Don't get too excited" Howard warned. "I've got to take you through at least a million things before I can even let you touch it"

Vince pouted a little. "Yeah, alright…does this mean it's going to get fun now?"

"You mean you weren't having fun before?" Howard said with mock-surprise as he turned the car around a roundabout and down towards the distant sea.

"Well, yeah, but…" Vince was obviously thinking hard to choose his words carefully. "There's only so many times I can listen to you talking about responsibility before I wanna shoot myself"

"I did tell you it wasn't always exciting"

"I know, but, I'm looking forward to something with a little more action"

"Well, as my chemistry teacher used to say" Howard put on a serious face. "Why have fun when we can have safe fun?"

"Your chemistry teacher sounds like a bit of a freak if you ask me"

"Mr. Rogers? Yeah, he was"

The car turned a corner and parked neatly right outside Howard's house. The older man got out, and stood by the sea wall, gazing out at the landscape. He inhaled a mouthful of salty air and sighed. Behind him, Vince's car door slammed. Howard turned, and Vince smiled at him, already at the top of the stone steps leading to the front door.

"Coming?" he asked timidly. Howard nodded, and strode to Vince's side. He unlocked the door, and the kid slid into the hallway in a manner similar to a cat. He made to go into the living room. Howard watched his movements with a small smile, and then coughed. Vince spun to face him, with a quizzical expression.

"Not in there" Howard said simply.

Vince frowned. Howard enjoyed the expression on his face; after all, Vince was usually so confident and sure about everything. When he was thrown, Howard had the upper hand, something he had lost his familiarity of in the last few weeks. He swung out his hand, and grasped onto the door, halfway along the stairs, that led to the basement. When he opened the door, the smell of must wafted out to greet them.

"What're we doing down there?" Vince asked warily, making his way towards the door. He disappeared into the darkness, his heels clacking noisily against the stone. Howard followed behind him, switching on the light as he did so. The singular bulb flickered into life sleepily. It was a pretty normal basement, in Howard's opinion. There were a couple of unidentifiable boxes lying around but not much apart from that.

"What, did you really think I was going to let you practice anything in the living room? In broad daylight?" Howard asked from the top of the stairs. He shut the door and smelt the damp.

"Alright, fair enough" Vince offered him a sideways grin. Howard walked down the stairs towards him, facing the boy squarely.

"For your first practical lesson, we're going to be covering self-defense" he said importantly. Then he sagged a little at the _are-you-serious_ look on Vince's face. "In all honestly, it's unlikely that you're ever going to have to use any of this. Ninety nine percent of jobs are straightforward. You just go in, get the money and get out again, simple as. But very occasionally it can go wrong, and you might find yourself in trouble, and you never know when that moment might occur. It's always best to be on the safe side"

"Fair enough" Vince shrugged. Howard could tell he was itching for action, and decided to prolong his agony. It was quite entertaining to watch the over-confident kid squirm.

"There're only two things that you need to remember here. Rule one: avoid using your gun at all costs" he said, stressing each word. "Remember, it's a lethal weapon. People forget that it can _kill_ you. Use it only as a last resort"

"Gotcha"

"Rule two: stick to the plan. There's no room for improvisation. Things go wrong when you try and do it solo. You're still a beginner, alright? You do what we say, and that means if we tell you to get out, you get out, yeah? Don't try and prove yourself"

Vince nodded, oddly solemn: "Don't use the gun, follow instructions"

"Exactly" Howard smiled. "Ok, I think we can move on now"

He shrugged off his coat, and took the small plastic bag from the pocket. He tipped the new Browning into his hands, opened it up and deliberately removed the five small bullets that lay nestled inside, cupping them in his hand and then releasing them on one of the boxes. Then he held up the weapon, and pointed it at Vince, who smiled nervously.

"Sorry…" he muttered weakly. "I know there's nothing in there, but…"

"No worries" Howard replied. "Now – give me your best shot"

Vince's brow sloped over his blue eyes: "Eh?"

"Imagine I'm a security guard" Howard explained. "You haven't got anything on you except your bare hands. What are you going to do?"

"Isn't that a bit unlikely?"

"Just get on with it"

Vince sighed, chewed on his lower lip. "Er…I'd probably cannonball you"

"Go on, then"

Vince tucked himself into a small ball and scuttled forward towards Howard, muttering something that sounded very like "This is ridiculous" and head-butting him gently in the chest. In slow-motion, Howard grabbed softly onto Vince's shoulder, twisted his skull away and nuzzled the butt into the back of his neck.

"Not bad for a first shot" he reasoned "But you'd still end up dead. Always try to keep the areas near your head protected. If you end up getting shot in the arm or the leg it's fixable, but if you're either stiff or in a coma then you're not going to be much good to anyone"

"Yeah, alright" came the muffled reply. "Can I get up now?"

Howard released the boy, and Vince stood up, straightening his spine.

"You alright?"

"Yeah"

"Good. Try again"

Vince placed his hands on his hips, and his upper lip curled. He didn't like repetition, Howard had noticed, because he wanted to be a natural, perfect the first time. He was probably used to that. So when he wasn't, he got defensive; adopted a horrible Camden-bitch stance.

"You're joking, right?"

Howard shook his head. "No, sir. And you don't have to take it quite so lightly, eh? I'm more well-built than you think; I can take it"

More purposefully than last time, the kid marched forward, and mimed a smooth punch to the side of Howard's head. Still slowly, the older man grabbed the open fist, and made to twist it behind Vince's back, but then he felt a placid force against the side of his jaw as the boy hit with his other hand. For a calm, silent moment, the pair danced against each other in a warped sort of waltz. Then Howard bent his knees slightly and curved his spine to the left, surfacing quickly and pushing the empty gun into Vince's ribs. Unbalanced, the younger man fell heavily on his rear.

Howard stood up, and offered a hand. "Alright, little man?"

Vince grinned, and the light broke through his eyes and he laughed. And then Howard felt warm bubbles in his throat and found he was laughing too. Vince grabbed his hand and yanked him down to the floor so they were sitting side by side.

"Funny way of spending a Sunday afternoon" Vince choked out after a moment.

"What would you normally be doing?"

"Erm…" Vince thought for a moment. "Christy, it seems so long ago now. I'd probably be painting something"

Howard frowned. "You paint?"

"Don't sound so shocked"

"I'm not. It's great. Just didn't have you down as an artist"

Vince shrugged. "You kill people, I paint. We're surprising people, you and me. They call me the confuser. M'alright as well"

"I'm sure you are"

So now they were discussing artwork in between self-defense practice as well? Well, Howard wasn't complaining. The familiarity was nice and he'd come to expect nothing less in his day-to-day life. He heaved himself on his feet, and pulled Vince up by the arm.

"Your posture is bloody awful" he said. Vince hit him playfully on the shoulder.

"What do you mean awful?" he giggled.

"Show me how you'd throw a punch"

Vince adopted the pose, his torso twisted back and to one side, his arm bent and contracted at a right-angle. Howard looked him up and down, ignoring Vince's flinch at the scrutiny.

"It's good" Howard said thoughtfully, stroking his moustache.

"But…?"

"But you're a little too twisted. You don't want to get knocked off your feet by your own attack. Try it like…"

He moved around to Vince's back, and placed his hands on the younger man's chest. He gently pulled upwards so that Vince's spine was straighter and not so contorted, and adjusted the attacking arm, like Vince was his mannequin. The hitch in the boy's breath came suddenly, shocking. Howard suddenly realized that the position he was in was ever-so slightly more than compromising, his face almost caught in the crook between his friend's neck and shoulder. He coughed, and moved back, admiring his masterpiece.

"That's better" he said, ignoring the warm blush choking his neck that was luckily hidden by his polo-necked jumper. "You've got more direction this way"

"It feels a bit weird" Vince complained. "Are you sure this is right?"

"Trust me; the fact that it looks a bit strange is an advantage. If your opponent thinks you're an amateur then you can use the element of surprise against them"

"I guess…" Vince agreed, letting his body flop. "Does that mean I'm not an amateur, then?"

"You won't be when I'm finished with you" Howard replied. Then he flushed, suddenly aware of the connotations of what he had said. Apparently, Vince had as well, for he raised one eyebrow and showed pearly white teeth.

"Shut up…"

"I didn't say anything!"

"Yeah, well"

Vince smirked, his mouth dimpling. It should have been infuriating, given the circumstances. Howard just found it endearing.

"Position yourself" he said, and Vince snapped like a wooden Christmas toy into the stance. He moved to stand in front of the oncoming fist. "And…throw"

Vince's small hand landed right in the centre of Howard's chest. Even though the Northerner had been expecting the hit, the force with which it was delivered unbalanced him slightly. Vince's eyes widened, swirling like a potion concocted of concern and fear.

"Too much?" he asked quickly. Howard shook his head.

"No. Perfect. You're a fast learner, I'll give you that"

Vince beamed with barely-contained delight, and Howard swallowed the small ball of pride that had begun to clog his throat. He quickly covered it up: "Reckon you could use that punch to disarm?"

"Er….dunno. I could try, though"

Howard picked up the gun from where it lay, pristine and discarded, on the floor. Firmly gripping it in one hand, he pointed it at the kid. Surprisingly, this time, Vince didn't move a muscle.

"Go on, then" Howard invited calmly, feeling nervous pebbles of sweat break out on his own forehead. "Hit me with your best shot"

"Ain't that a Pat Benatar song?"

"Probably"

Vince shrugged. Then he swung.

The attack was sharper than Howard had been anticipating, and he reacted quickly, dodging to one side so that Vince's fist flew over his shoulder, narrowly missing his ear. He turned, but just as his opponent's other hand dug quickly into his chest, pushing him away. With a surge of adrenaline, Howard quickly grabbed for Vince's shoulder, and as his fingers grasped for contact, Vince tried to grab at the extended arm. Seizing his chance, Howard swung the gun towards Vince's other side but then a fist barreled down onto his hand and then the gun was gone, skittering across the floor and swiveling into a guilty heap by a box.

Howard looked up. Vince's eyes were wide and wild, and he was breathing heavily.

"Did I just…"

"Yeah"

Howard shook his head. He honestly hadn't been expecting that. The blood pounded in his ears and his forehead.

"Bloody hell" he breathed. "That was brilliant"

Vince laughed nervously. "No it wasn't. That was sheer luck"

"Sheer luck's a good thing to have on your side"

"I didn't even know I was doing it"

"Well, do you think you can do it again? That's the main thing"

Vince's pointed jaw set defiantly. "Yeah. Yeah, I reckon"

"Fantastic"

Vince was standing directly under the single bulb, the light scratched all over his skin, making it look paler. His black hair seemed to glow and imprint against the white wall behind him. His eyes were fuzzy. Dark shadows clung to his face, dragging down his lips. It looked at if he were taking part in a photo shoot; a rock n roll star on the cover of Cheekbone. Howard blinked.

"I guess the "no touching" rule's gone out the window" Vince grinned with a giggle. "You seem quite eager now"

"Oh, shut up" Howard sighed half-heartedly. He grabbed the gun from the floor, and pointed it again with a wry smile. "Go for it"

This time, Howard was on his guard. It took a good struggle for five minutes before Vince was able to successfully wriggle the weapon from Howard's paw-like hands. Howard knew that, had the gun been loaded, there would have been at least six points where he could have successfully shot Vince, but he decided not to mention that. For some reason, the idea of the kid lying and gasping on the floor kept flashing up in his mind, and every time he struggled to force it back down because it twisted his guts, made him feel nauseous. He took Vince through the motions again to keep his mind off it. The blows were still more playful than physically harmful, but he could feel a raw bruise rising to the surface on his shoulder as they wrestled. More worrying than that, however, was the smile that kept twitching its way onto his lips. He was enjoying this. He hated enjoying it, but he was. And from the Clingfilm-shine in his eyes, Vince was too.

It was when Vince jumped on his back, startling him with such a force that he simply dropped the gun out of surprise, that he grasped how awkward the situation should have made him feel. Vince's skinny arms were tangled round his neck; his feet around his waist. Howard coughed, and felt Vince slide down his spine and off onto the floor. Adrenaline surged through his veins.

"You alright?" Vince asked, concern spiking through his voice.

"Yeah, fine" Howard replied. He glanced at his watch. "Bloody hell! It's already three o clock! You must be starving"

Vince shook his head slowly. "Yeah. I just forgot about it"

Howard had too. Time had slowed down, stopped, won the game it had been playing.

"Do you want some lunch?" he asked. He stopped down, scooped up the now-scratched silver gun from the floor, and placed it back in the discarded plastic bag.

"Yeah, sounds good"

"I could rustle up a quiche?"

"Your quiches are amazing" Vince grinned, suddenly looking more his natural self. He thumbed towards the stairs. "I'm just gonna go and wash my hair, yeah? S'feeling a bit manky"

"Sure"

Vince scuttled off, the noise his boots made on the wooden floor reverberating throughout the house. Howard listened to his moving around upstairs, and the rush of water. Then he moved off into the kitchen, tucking the bag into a spare drawer by the phone as he did so.

The quiche was made from scratch and so took an hour. Howard didn't particularly like cooking – he was alright at it, but he usually only ate for one and so doubling the ingredients was irritating at best. Cooking for two was, quite frankly, weird. He'd never had to do it before. He'd never really had to do anything for two people before. Sometimes he found himself about to enter the bathroom before realizing that Vince's hour-long ritual hadn't finished yet, having completely forgotten that his friend was even in the house. Coming home to a house that wasn't silent was odd as well. Not bad, he supposed, just odd. He remembered his own company but wasn't sure how fondly he remembered it. He wasn't sure when this was all going to be over, and of that he was sure, but he _wasn't_ sure if he could return to a life of solitary confinement after this escapade. And he bloody well wasn't sure if he even wanted to. Did he want to wake up in the morning and be able to pick out a shirt with no bother because there was nobody there to steal them? Did he want to be able to find his toothbrush without knocking over a multitude of hair-based objects? Did he want to be able to come home and play jazz without anyone complaining?

Ok, maybe the last one, but apart from that the answer was a firm _no_.

Vince was good company. He was obnoxious and annoying, yes, but he was also funny, loyal, and surprisingly smart and emitted a throb of warmth wherever he went. Howard had originally been suspicious of this; after all, this charisma was probably used to lure a thousand Camden dollybirds to Vince's side every week. Then again, the little man had never mentioned a girlfriend…

But Vince was a good man, and in Howard's line of work those were as rare to come across as a tribe of Yetis. Howard didn't want to dwell on the future. What would happen after Vince's "training" was over? Would the kid vanish without a trace? The thought made Howard's chest clench, and he forced down the lump in his throat.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of feet, bare this time, skipping down the stairway. He heard Vince move into the living room.

"Mind if I put on some music?" came a call.

"Nope, go ahead" he called back, praying to all that was and ever had been holy that Vince wouldn't play Gary Numan. Presently, though, the sound of guitars and drums came throbbing out of the adjacent room rather than techno-electro beats. Howard sighed in relief, and stuck the quiche into the oven.

When he took it out again, the music Vince had been playing had gone through several tracks, though he didn't know who the band was. He left the meal to cool gently on the side, and sloped through to the other room. Vince was sprawled on the sofa. With some degree of surprise, Howard noted that the kid had changed his outfit – not to another retro concoction that he had pulled together on a shopping trip ("It's amazing what you can get in Whitstable" Howard remembered him saying, holding a shiny metallic jacket aloof like it was the Bible) but one of Howard's shirts, oversized and blue, and a pair of one of his mentor's faded Cords. He looked like a child who had tumbled out of the dressing-up box; the outfit bloomed over his slight frame, overshadowing him. He was wearing no make-up, and his wet hair dripped onto his back. Howard almost expected the drips to be black the way his hair was shining. He was reading a magazine, smiling slightly at the pictures.

Before Howard had the chance to open his mouth, the track changed on the stereo. Vince's head snapped up. His eyes gleamed. He smiled.

"Genius, I love this song" he said quietly. He begun to sing along quietly, his face taking on the same expression it had gone with Numan in the car; a look of immersion. "Under blue moon I saw you, so soon you'll take me, up in your arms too late to beg you or cancel it, though I know it must be the killing time…unwillingly mine…"

Howard stood in the door and watched his partner swaying in time to the music. He wasn't a particularly good singer – sure, he could hit all the notes but that was about it – but there was something about the performance that was particularly affecting. He could imagine Vince in the middle of a club dancing in a non-conventional way, just a part of the rhythm around him, eyes closed and singing along.

And he looked…

He looked _fucking_…

Beautiful.

Oh shit.

"Sorry, Howard, what'dya want?"

"Oh, er…quiche is ready"

"Genius"

Oh _shit_.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Note – Thanks to everybody who has read and reviewed this. By the way, I have an incredibly and understandably limited view of gun usage, which is why any description I use is ridiculously vague. Just so you know. It's a bit of a shorter one, this, and I'm sorry it's taken me a while to update. But I was inspired by the O2 Gorillaz concert I went to on Sunday and so, without further ado, here it is!**_

**Friday 3****rd**** November 2003.**

When Howard got back from work, Vince was curled up on the sofa watching some rubbish on the box; Channel 5 daytime TV, an old-fashioned musical that would not have looked out of place on the Christmas Day telly schedule at an OAP Home. He seemed to be enjoying it, though, as he was sloped out over his chair, curled up with his legs dangling awkwardly over one arm. He lazily lifted his head, and turned the film off when Howard entered the room.

"Alright?"

"I'm fine. You?"

Vince heaved himself upright. "M'good. How was work?"

"Dull as you wouldn't believe. I want to shoot my boss sometimes"

"Most people feel like that" Vince agreed. "Difference is you could actually do it"

Howard chuckled darkly, and Vince shot him a smile that scalded his insides. "Nice to know you take my underlying violence so lightly, little man"

"It's much more interesting than having an underlying nothing" Vince shrugged with an air of nonchalance.

"Yes, I suppose" Howard said, wondering when Vince had become so philosophical. "What're you watching there?"

"Funny Girl" Vince replied shortly.

"Didn't know you were into musicals"

"M'not really. But it was on and it was entertaining"

"Fair enough"

"What did you do today?" Vince asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, the question is, what didn't I do?" Howard muttered sarcastically. "I filed, I booked, I argued for twenty minutes with some twat on the phone. Yeah, it was all happening"

Vince snickered. "That sounds electric. Wanna know what I did?"

"Apart from watching crappy TV? Go on then"

"Well, see, I invented a genius new game, yeah? I call it Pelt The Rabbit In His Big White Face, and what you do is, you're on your own and this massive rabbit with this really huge face comes running out at you, and you gotta pelt him with, like, sunflower seeds or just beat him to death with your shoe because if he catches you, he just throws you on the floor and rapes you"

Howard blinked. "I see you've had a productive day, then"

"I was thinking, if we alter it a bit, we could rejuvenate the way people rob banks. Imagine standing in a bank and then being harassed by a massive rabbit. You'd vacate the premises pretty fast, yeah? Then we could step in"

Howard ran a hand over his face. "Ok, firstly, where would we get a really big rabbit? And how would we train it to rape people?" He smiled. "You haven't thought this through very well"

Vince giggled. "It would be pretty mental, though"

"If we could I'm sure the rates of crime in Britain would skyrocket"

It was only with Vince that Howard actually took the ridiculous idea of giant raping rabbits semi-seriously. He had that effect.

"It would break down the boundaries of bank robbery" Vince said.

"Watch it, sir. Our methods were revolutionary in their time. We've broken down the boundaries. We're like birds, eh? Pecking at the boundaries" He went into the hallway and hung his coat up. "Speaking of which, we've got another lesson tonight, yeah?"

"Aw, brilliant!" came the reply, and there was a thud as Vince jumped out of his chair. "What're we doing today? Not self-defense again, _please_. I've done that so many times I'm practically bumming it. I know it all"

Howard snorted. "But do you really know it all? What was the last thing I told you last night?"

"Lesson Thirty" Vince quickly recited. "Defending against a club attack. Should you have the misfortune of being attacked by someone wielding a club, the best course of action is to run. There is no dishonor in running from a man with a lethal weapon. This is merely good sense"

Howard stared at him in wonder. Vince rolled his eyes and smiled cockily. "See. I'm smarter than you give me credit for. I didn't do A-Levels but I got all C and above at GCSE. Just none of it was interesting enough. This is the only lesson to _ever_ capture my attention"

"I never said you weren't clever" Howard defended, punching back the pride. Vince shook his head, smiling the same insufferable smile that made Howard's stomach do a tiny twisty. "You're right. I think we can move on today. But you have to remember, Vince, it's a lot harder to use a gun in real life than it is in practice"

"I'm sure it is!"

"You don't seem to be taking this very seriously. You're never going to have to use it against _me_, are you? It's different pointing it empty at someone you know than it is pointing it loaded at someone you don't"

Vince sighed and lolled against the doorway. "I get that. Really. I do. Come on, Howard. I know everything else back to front. You can test me"

"Actually, that's not a bad idea"

"Oh, for Christy's sake!"

"Ok, Vince" Howard said, sitting himself down on the sofa. "How would you rob a bank?"

Vince slammed himself down in his chair. "Right. Er…I'd pick a place near-ish to a main road but not right in the centre of London. I'd go there a few times, work out staff information and when the best day to go is. Then I'd drive there somewhere in the afternoon, just after their lunch break. I'd be wearing a balaclava and all black. I'd try a note job first"

"And if that didn't work?"

"I'd take a hostage – preferably someone over fifty but the closest person would do as long as they weren't a child. Then I'd publically demand the money and take it. Then I would leave calmly and go back to the car and drive away. Then I'd clean all my clothes, hide the money in a secure place" He was speaking from rote. "And make sure the number plate on the car was changed…" He frowned, and looked up at Howard for guidance. "Have I missed anything?"

"Only one thing – never do anything alone, remember?"

Vince sighed with exasperation. "I knew it!"

"Apart from that, all great. But what happens if you're confronted with security guards? Big tough bastards with stupid nicknames like Mickey the Fist or Jimmy the Reach"

"Left hook and right-left again. Start depending on what hand they are. Threaten but don't shoot unless in retaliation"

Howard smiled fondly. "Bloody perfect. You have passed the test"

Vince's grin was so large it looked like it would rip his face in two. Howard's heart swelled, and he quickly deflated it. His protégé tucked a loose strand of inky hair behind his ear, and Howard ignored the instinct to reach out and touch his chalky-white face.

"Reckon you'd be as good in practice?"

Vince scoffed. "Yeah!"

"Well, we'll see when the time comes. Don't get too cocky"

"Why not? It's not like I've been trained by the best"

Howard felt his face shift from normal to an angry tomato right through to an aggressive beetroot. "Yeah, well…cheers. But you're right. I suppose we can move on now"

"Are you actually going to let me hold the gun this time?"

"Maybe"

"It is actually mine, you know"

"I paid for it!"

Vince laughed quietly. Then, strangely, his eyes widened as if he were pondering something. He frowned. "Hey, Howard"

"What?"

"It's the 3rd today, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Vince grinned. "You know it's been a month since I met you"

Howard opened his mouth to reply, but then he stopped, thought back. It couldn't have only been a month, could it? It felt like he had known Vince forever…but at the same time it felt like they had only been introduced yesterday. A whole damned month. Thirty days. They'd by-passed Halloween, that much was certain – he had expected Vince to celebrate the occasion by dressing up in some manic Rocky Horror-style outfit, but the kid had been surprisingly quiet and he'd almost forgotten about the day altogether. But, still. A month! That was madness. How could time feel so long and so short at the same time? One fucking month since Ray had blown a perfectly worked-out job he could understand, but a month of waking up and holding ridiculous bantering conversations and those bloody eyes.

"Yeah, little man. I think it has"

"First fuckin' anniversary, eh?"

Howard jumped. Vince never swore. In fact, the only time he heard him swear was when he was really angry, but now he was smiling (why, why was he always _smiling_?) in bemused wonderment. Oh. And the small matter of what he had just said…

"Well, if you want to put it like that" he laughed awkwardly. Vince licked his dry mouth and grinned, his teeth pressing gently into his bottom lip. Howard was still for a moment, and then he quickly stood up. "Cup of tea?"

"Er…yeah, that'd be genius"

Howard practically fled into the next room. He ran his hands over his face in exasperation and then leant against the counter, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles paled and blanched. His breaths were choked and his heart was jack-hammering inside his chest like a car that needed to be jump-started. His pulse was racing in fits and starts. Adrenaline prickled in electric waves under his skin, raising his hairs. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He swallowed in a vain attempt to moisten his sandpaper-dry throat. He could barely stand to be in that room, talking to the kid like that, not when his whole body felt like it had dropped in a vat of acid – the nasty kind, not the tripping kind, because this feeling wasn't nice. Surely Vince would notice, and then what? He'd laugh and he'd leave. If only Howard had know before all this that pointing a loaded gun down the boy's throat was less effective in forcing him far away than, say, a kiss.

Because _Christy_ he wanted to kiss him.

With shaking hands, Howard managed to fill the kettle and made two cups of tea – white with two sugars for Vince and dark for him. What could he do? He wanted Vince, badly, addictively. He wanted flesh and skin and to know that that white, white skin wasn't made of china, wouldn't break under his hands.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself together and carry the steaming mugs through without dropping them. He handed one to Vince who took it and sipped gratefully.

"Cheers, H'ward" he said, his voice thawing against the steam. Howard nodded. "So what _are_ we doin' today?"

"Patience is a virtue, little man"

"I've been bored out of my mind all day!" Vince exclaimed. "I wanna know!"

Howard sighed, and felt the spine of his will break and snap in two. "Alright, I think I can trust you enough, so I'll start teaching you how to handle a gun. But when I do, it's your responsibility. Any fuck ups and it's your head on the line, alright?"

Vince was beaming. "You what? Really?"

"Weren't you listening to what I just said?"

"You trust me?"

"I'm starting to less and less…" Lies, of course, to stop himself from becoming any more poncey than he already was; before he started waxing lyrical about sharp-angled faces and smiles to light up the sky and haunting eyes. Romance was definitely not something for men who ran around with guns. He'd spent his whole life putting everything into these jobs and now he was tired, too tired to put all his energy into something so unrealistic. "God, you and your blood lust"

"You're just saying that" Vince nodded confidently. "You trust me with your house, don't you? And your money"

"I think you'll find you started stealing my money before I had a chance to mistrust you" Howard scoffed, pondering on how he would trust Vince with his _life_ if it came to it.

"Oh, yeah"

Howard chuckled at Vince's expression. "But, yes. I will let you use the gun"

"Brilliant!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"And I ain't got blood lust"

Howard sipped his tea. "Sure you don't"

* * *

It was much later before Howard decided they were safe enough. He'd wanted to wait at least an hour before going down to the cellar after closing the curtains, but Vince had insisted that people wouldn't be watching the window for cracks of light, and that, besides, was he _really_ expected to stumble around the dark in _these_ shoes? The shoes in question were not the ridiculous shiny boots, but the small crimson ones that Vince had been wearing when they first met, the ones that could only have looked less inconspicuous in a brothel. It was a dark night, and cold, and the sound of waves rushing against a shore did as little to steady Howard's nerves than the wind that banged against the windows and the dead leaves that scratched along the beach. The moon had hidden behind thick cloud that shrouded the whole sky.

The sudden click of Vince's heel hitting against the stone step to the cellar made Howard leap a mile in the air. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his heart pooling in his brogues. Vince switched the light on and the cellar gratefully flickered into light.

"Don't be so jumpy" came the surprisingly soft Cockney brogue. "S'just me"

"That's precisely why I'm worried" Howard snapped back, regretting the bitter words as soon as he had spat them out. Vince, however, seemed unperturbed.

"Don't worry; worse things have happened to me"

"Like what?" Howard replied, cynically. Strands of Vince's black hair entwined themselves together as he shook his head in a cryptic reply. Howard sighed.

There was a piano in the corner of the room that Howard had somehow inherited – it had come with the house, as if the previous owners had just forgotten that is was waiting in the cellar. The sight of it always made Howard feel slightly sad, as if seeing the instrument reminded him that it would never be played again. But, nevertheless, the old Joanna was an exceptionally good hiding place for illegal firearms, and it was from underneath the folding key-cover that Howard retrieved Vince's gun, untouched by the fingers of its owner but battered from training. It was with some trepidation that the older man handed it to pale white fingers that trembled in awe. As he placed the hot metal onto the cool palm, their skin brushed, just for a moment.

Vince gazed down at the gun, his face unreadable. He tested it, weighing it in his hands, slotting and curving his fingers around it to grip.

"S'heavier than I thought it would be"

Howard huffed a small laugh, watching in fascination as Vince's fingertips pressed over every inch of the handle, feeling their way into recognition. The kid looked up, and Howard coughed.

"Make sure you've got a good grip on it, ok? Hold it out in front"

Vince complied. Howard moved around so that they were facing the same direction. "Yep…" he said quietly, studying the pose. "That's good…Bit more like…" He rested a hand on Vince's arm, marveling momentarily at how his whole paw could cover Vince's slender bicep. "This…"

Vince let Howard shift and move his arm easily, adjusting it mechanically. It was only when he let out a sudden breath that Howard jumped back.

"Yeah, perfect"

"I've had plenty of practice"

Howard started. "What?"

"S'just a bit like holding a hairdryer" Vince said quietly. He didn't laugh, or smile. He held the weapon steadily, the only betrayal of his underlying nervousness the faint tremor that ran down the taut line between his thumb and forefinger.

"Can I put my arm down now?" he said after a few moments of silence.

"Yes" Howard replied, and Vince gratefully let his arm drop and swing heavily by his side. "But you'll have to get used to the ache. There're only a few things you essentially need to know when handling a weapon of this magnitude – loading and shooting. That's the basics. The rest you pick up over a longer period of time"

He reached out and prised the gun from Vince's hands, ignoring the sudden jolt of the freezing warmth that clogged his veins. Surprisingly, Vince was staring into space, his eyes swimming, and it took a small coaxing tug before he unwillingly gave up the weapon. Howard smiled at him reassuringly, and shook the gun. It rattled skeletally.

"Hear that?" he asked, demonstrating again. "That little judder? That means the gun's empty and it needs refueling"

"Cool" Vince replied tonelessly with a sharp nod. Howard frowned.

"Are you alright?"

Vince mimicked his expression. "Yeah. M'fine"

"Good. Good" Howard nodded, and Vince gave him an unconvincing smile. "It's understandable if you're a little uncomfortable"

He reached into his pockets and pulled out a small box that was similar to one you might find matches in. Expertly and one-handedly, he pushed out the centre to reveal a cluster of small, black bullets. Vince's eyes widened just slightly, but he still said nothing.

"Now these are your basic, standard bullets" Howard explained. "Pretty ordinary. Nothing fancy. Cheap if you know where to get them. They will do the job if it comes down to it, and that's really all you need. You just need to hope that you won't ever have to use them. Well, maybe ever is pushing it a bit, but still"

"Can I…?" Vince asked, and Howard held out the box. Vince's bird-like fingers deftly swept down and plucked one from the crowd. He held it up to his face, examining it, his eyes crossing slightly the same way they did last time he had a bullet to the face. Howard tucked the box back into the pocket of his coat.

"All you need to know is how to re-fill. You click it back…" he demonstrated. "Like so. And then push this in here" He snapped the cartridge shut and opened it again. "Pretty simple, eh?"

Vince nodded silently, taking the gun from Howard's offering hand and trying it out from himself. The resounding _click_ echoed around the cellar, menacing enough on its own without the _crack_ that Howard knew usually followed.

"Yeah, that's all that is to it" he muttered as Vince successfully mimicked him and placed the bullet back in the box, and then put that on the floor out of harm's way. There was something in the coldness with which his hands moved that suddenly disturbed Howard, shaking him right to the core with the strangeness of it all. He coughed at the dryness in his throat and tried to carry on regardless.

"Ok, so now you've got that, hold it up again"

Vince's arm straightened mechanically, his whole body now automatically shifting into posture. Catlike, statuesque, he stood, poised and waiting.

"Perfect. Ok, let's see…"

His words were meaningless, his monologue only continuing in a vain attempt to fill the void between his heart and Vince's silence. They flittered from his mouth and evaporated in the air like paper butterflies.

He stepped so that he was standing right behind the younger man, parallel to Vince's bony left shoulder and the fatally outstretched arm. He stooped slightly to see a view similar to what he hoped his protégé was seeing, and narrowed his eyes.

"To shoot, all you need to do is squeeze the trigger" he said quietly, not daring to raise his voice too much when it was so close to Vince's ear. A lump squatted in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down and even his breathing, but to no avail. "That's one part of the films they got right. It needs to be relatively sharp, but don't run around with your finger on it because even a stumble can be disastrous. Alright? Give it a go"

Without a second thought, Vince squeezed. There was a sound similar to a breaking chair, the crack of flimsy wood, and Howard flinched in trained reflex even though he knew nothing would happen. Vince was staring blankly at the wall as if expecting to see a bullet embedded there.

Er…yes, yes, that's it. Good" Howard stuttered. Vince's readiness had startled him. "Seems easy, doesn't it? But that doesn't prepare you for the throwback. It can knock you off your feet, sir. Especially if you don't know what's coming"

Howard's neck burned, and he mentally kicked himself over and over for what he had to do next. He raised his hands, placing one on Vince's shoulder and the other just below a pointy elbow. Hollow air slipped through his parted mouth.

"On three, you're going to squeeze the trigger again, alright?"

"Right" Vince replied curtly, his face stiff with concentration.

"One…two…three…fire"

Vince pulled, and the small clack tore through the room. Howard's hands tensed, and he yanked back sideways so that Vince's whole torso was tugged sharply to the left. There was a sharp intake of air from the boy as he was ripped off balance, and he stumbled drunkenly as Howard held his own steadier position.

"Jesus!" Vince muttered. He pulled back from Howard's grasp, frowning jaggedly. Howard nodded, feeling the guilt at the surprise spiral through his nervous system.

"Sorry. But that _is_ what it's like, unfortunately" he said apologetically. "It takes practice to get used to it. In a way, you're lucky. I had to learn this the hard way"

Vince mumbled something under his breath.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine!" Vince said. "Just not ecstatic 'bout having your big Northern paws practically ripping off me arm, am I?"

There was a pause.

"You're going to have to show me how to lie some time"

Vince turned on his heels. "What?"

Howard shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. He was never very good at acting. His face always ended up looking more conspicuous than it was originally. Bank Robber's Guilt.

"It's an art, lying" he said quietly. "A difficult one at that, and a good skill for this line of work. One clever word is all you need. I've never been good at it" He sighed. "You've got a talent. I don't expect you to tell me everything, but…you can trust me, yeah?"

Vince's face didn't move. "I'm not lying. I'm fine"

"Fair dues. We'll go through throwback again. The more practice the better"

Vince scowled slightly, but nodded anyway, and took up his position. Howard followed suit, and placed his hands on the bony arms again.

"Ok, ready? One, two, three, fire"

There was less of a pause this time, and Howard saw how Vince's whole face suddenly burst out, blooming in surprise and the sudden need for quickness. The timing of the shot was a little off, and Howard found himself pulling Vince's arm backwards before the shot had even gone off. Vince stumbled on his feet, and fell heavily onto his arse, his legs bent at awkward angles, his arm pointing the gun at the corner of the ceiling.

"Fuck…" he breathed shakily, his eyes widened.

Howard chuckled through his lips. "Sorry about that" he said.

Vince stood up, biting his lip fiercely. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"A miscalculation. I'm sorry" Howard said, quickly humbled by the lightning in Vince's eyes. "But…can I ask you something? Do you visualize a person? When you're…" He gestured to the gun in Vince's hand.

Vince glanced at it and shrugged. "Yeah. Not anyone I know, though"

"So where on them are you aiming for?"

Vince's face crinkled into a frown. "I dunno. The chest?"

Howard shook his head. "Never. Always shoot to maim, Vince, that's important. Hands, arms, legs. Never at the chest or the back. If you're ever in a situation where it's unavoidable, well…" He shook his head. "Between the eyes. Right between the eyes. That's where you hit. It's quick, and it's almost painless for those involved"

Vince's face was unreadable, but his gaze snapped to the floor and he nodded. "Yeah"

"Don't worry. Let's go again"

He didn't miss Vince's barely audible sigh as he reluctantly shuffled back into his pose. This time Howard noticed that the gun was pointed slightly downwards. Admittedly, he was impressed at the younger man's dedication to the cause.

"One. Two. Three. Fire"

He made sure that, this time, he spoke more deliberately. However, he hadn't been banking on the fact that in doing so, he wasn't concentrating on the force with which he was to pull Vince back. As the crack swept around the room, Howard jolted, and hauled hard. The gun went clattering to the concrete floor as it was dropped was Vince's hands. The young man cried out as he fell sideways. He shifted, trying to regain his balance, but then all sense of it was lost as he careered backwards and fell onto a pile of boxes, bumping his hand firmly but not worryingly against the wall. For a moment there was silence.

"Vince! Shit…are you ok?"

"What does it _fucking_ look like?" Vince growled, running a hand through his hair. A bruise was slowly beginning to form on his arm, although whether from the fall of the pressure of the hand Howard wasn't sure, and when he held out his hands there were small patches of blood where he had scraped them. "For _fuck's_ sake! You Northern _dossbag_!"

"No need for that" Howard frowned. Vince clambered to his feet, and there was white hot rage in his eyes. He took two paces forward, swung his arm back and without warning punched Howard squarely in the face.

The blow wasn't very hard. Howard stepped back, wincing as an arrow of pain shot through his cheek. He blinked, and then ducked sharply as another fist came flying towards him.

Howard gasped. He didn't know where this had come from. The anger in the face of the kid was remarkable, unseen by human eyes and now it was directed at him. He had two options that he could see. He could try and restrain Vince, or he could get out.

He stood up, and landed his own fist in Vince's flat stomach. The raven-haired man doubled over, gasping. Then his eyes narrowed, and he swiped the gun from where it had been dropped. He marched purposefully over to Howard, and attempted to slap him across the face with the butt of the weapon. Howard blocked, delivering a swift punch to Vince's shoulder that sent him reeling slightly. He tried to make his way to the stairs to get out, but then there was a sickening click behind him, and he turned.

Vince had loaded the gun, and was pointing it right at him.

There was a moment, and it hung in the air. All of Howard's hairs stood on end. He felt his heart shred. Then he barreled towards the man, only having time to vaguely register the look of shock on Vince's face as he did so, and crashed into his shoulder.

Vince fell again, but with more agility, and he was up quicker. They were both breathing heavily. Howard lunged for Vince's hand, trying to force him to give up the weapon but then there was a sharp crack in his jaw where Vince had punched him and he stuttered, grasping at his face. Seizing his chance, Vince tried for his stomach, but Howard had been anticipating this and grabbed out for the pale wrist. He was lucky. Skin made contact with skin. Then he held on tight, pulling Vince towards him and crashing down on his shoulder with his free hand. Vince's hand shot open and the gun fell from his grasp. Howard grabbed for it, and pointed it into the back of Vince's skull. The little man froze.

For a second, there was absolute silence save for the heavy breathing of the two men. Vince squirmed, trying to free himself, and then fell forward. Howard lent forward.

"All you have to do is make one…wrong…move" he whispered in Vince's ear. "And _bang_ – right through your head. Then you won't have the blues, sir, I promise you"

Vince was still. Howard lowered his arm, and placed it on the floor beside him.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. Vince was still. "You know you couldn't have won, don't you? I taught you everything you know"

"Yeah, but did you teach me everything _you_ know?"

Vince's tone was sour, but there was a hint of the playful edge that was usually there and it was Screamin' Jay Hawkins to Howard's ears.

"What?"

"I dunno…"

"What were you doing?" Howard demanded. "What on Earth did you think you would achieve by doing that?"

"I dunno…!" Vince tried to shrug, but Howard's still-constricting grip stopped him. "I weren't thinking"

"You've been moody all afternoon!"

"I haven't!"

"Don't lie to me, Vince. I know what you're thinking. You reckon I didn't notice?"

"Well I weren't the only one, was I?"

Howard stopped in his tracks.

"What?"

"Nothing"

"No, no, if you've got something to say-"

"It's nothing, Howard!" Vince insisted. "Leave it"

And then Howard really knew something was up, because Vince would never ask to be voluntarily ignored. He loosened his hold somewhat.

"Go on, little man. It's only me"

"And that's it, ain't it! It's _only_ you! There isn't anyone else!"

Howard frowned. "Vince, you can go out any time you want"

"S'not what I meant" Vince seemed exasperated. "It's like…you say you were noticing me but I was noticing you too, you know"

Howard paused. "Can't say I follow"

"Ah!" Vince cried. "It won't come out right! It's like when I said that thing about our anniversary and you got all jumpy and practically _ran away_ and…" His voice trailed off, as if he'd said too much, but then he spoke again: "And you act like you don't wanna be around me, like you don't wanna teach me 'coz I'm stupid, but the thing is I'm trying my best and…and I'm sorry I got all pissy and tried to hit ya but I was angry and then you retaliated and you're just so bloody _stupid_, Howard! N' you don't _get_ it!"

Howard let out a shuddering breath. His body was all aflame.

"Vince?"

"Yeah, I know it doesn't make sense. Just leave it"

Howard knelt back, and let go of Vince's arms. At the movement, the kid's neck snapped round to look at him, and Howard found himself frozen, petrified by his eyes.

"No. I think you've got the wrong end of the stick here" he chuckled nervously. "I don't think you're stupid. I mean…you're bloody brilliant. If I'd been anyone else just now, I'd be dead"

"Trust you to make a moment _really_ awkward" Vince said with a small twitch of the mouth that was somewhere between a grimace and a smile but still made Howard's stomach commit suicide.

"I was not aware we were having a moment" he said. His attempt to make his voice light and amused failed epically, and he inwardly cringed at his tone.

"Oh, yeah, this is a moment" Vince laughed, his eyes downcast, running his hands through his hair. He glanced up. His face was pale. His eyes were blue. Howard stilled. Vince smiled.

"Am I really alright?"

Howard tried for a smile. "You're fantastic. And I don't…run away from you, or whatever you were saying. And not for the reasons you think, certainly"

"Then why?"

Howard spluttered for a moment, and then Vince raised a hand to interrupt him.

"Doesn't matter. I think I've worked it out"

"Oh…do you?" Howard asked weakly. Oh, shit. Oh, _fuck_! He knew this was coming. It had only been a matter of time.

And then Vince's face was ridiculously close. He felt the hair tickling his face before the hard, cracked lips that grazed his own, hymns upon his mouth. His whole body slackened and he didn't even realise that he had been kissing Vince back, the rhythm in and out his lips, until spots waltzed behind his eyes and the boy pulled away.

"Fucking _finally_…" Vince whispered, and Howard moved in again.

**(Note 2 – If it's hardcore slash you're wanting, then I'm sorry to disappoint, but I really can't write smut and I'm not going to attempt to. ****Hope this doesn't put anyone off)**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Note –I hope you can forgive me for my infrequent updating. These have been hectic months! Plus I'm planning a couple more Boosh stories for you for 2011, and the plots are suffocating my brain. But anyway, enjoy, even though this is a very short 'un and I'm not too proud of it. But its pillow talk, so I hope it's a nice enough filler.**_

_**Disclaimer –I don't normally do these, but bits of this chapter are based on real-life events of Messrs Barratt and Fielding, specifically Howard's Morrisons anecdote and Vince's cat story. So I don't own those. Just to add to the list. Wow, this is a long note…**_

**Saturday 12****th**** November 2003.**

The sea was calm as it rolled softly against the shore. It was a bright day, freezing cold but with pale sunlight streaming through the ashy clouds above. The room was flooded with light that sunk into the rich blue design.

Howard was resolutely keeping his eyes shut, feeling the warm breath flow in and out of his system. It was ten, and so far he'd only crept out of bed once to draw the curtains. He curled the duvet tighter around his body to preserve heat with the small sigh of someone that has no need to be awakened. However, his wishes were not about to be granted, as he felt the mattress shift underneath him. A hand reached up to touch his hair, stroking over his scalp.

"I dreamt about you last night…" Vince said lazily, swirling one of Howard's curls around his finger. "We were in a zoo. No, wait…we were working _at_ the zoo. And you had to fight a Kangaroo for some reason, and so I went to this really tiny wizard to get help…and he told me I had to grab its balls so you could hit it, and I did but then you did something 'n I woke up"

"That sounds like the shittest dream ever" Howard replied monotonously, not opening his eyes. He could practically _feel_ Vince's Cheshire-Cat grin as he replied.

"That's 'coz all _your_ dreams are about _me_, small-eyes" Vince chuckled lowly. Howard felt a small body press into his back, a cheek against the nape of his neck and an arm slung over his midriff (the other hand still entangled in his hair) as the younger man snuggled into his spine. Sensing that all hope of being able to sleep was lost; Howard reached over to the bedside table and fumbled on his glasses. As the world was cleansed of his poor eyesight, he stiffly turned his neck to see the sleepy morning face of his partner gazing heavy-lidded up at him.

"What's the time?" Vince mumbled.

"About ten. Might go and get a paper in a bit"

"No! Stay here and sleep…" the other man groaned, burying his face in the pillow with a cheeky, wide-awake grin. Howard sniggered fondly.

"Well, I can't say no to that" he said. He rolled onto his back, and rested his hands on his pyjama-clad chest. His gaze flickered to his open wardrobe, where Vince's outfits spilled out and over, engulfing his own paltry collection of expensive but admittedly plain clothes. A line of bright shoes and boots marched from the door to the corner, lined neatly and precisely in pairs. It was rather remarkable how quickly Vince had integrated himself into the master bedroom. He'd left his own shiny silver brand embedded and burnt into the room. Howard preferred it that way. He glanced up at the ceiling, pretending not to notice Vince's cold foot pressing against his leg.

"You look funny with your glasses on" Vince mumbled.

"Good funny or bad funny?"

"Um…good funny. I think. Yeah"

"Well, I suppose that's an improvement from your usual comments on my outfits"

Vince laughed. "Come on, that jumper was an outrage!"

"You called it a sepia nightmare, as I recall"

"It _was _a sepia nightmare! But the glasses are nice. All…distinguished, like. They make you look a bit like a librarian"

"Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"Definitely flattered" Vince grinned.

"I used to be a librarian, you know. In Leeds"

Vince snickered. Howard hit him playfully: "What? It's a noble profession, sir"

"Nick off! How did you get into your life in crime, then?"

Vince's teeth were shining and his eyes were melting. He looked bloody gorgeous. Howard sighed and leant back, feeling the squishy pillow envelop his head.

"Bit serious for ten in the morning, isn't it?"

"Bugger off. I'm all interested now. You've got some dark mysterious past that I wanna now about" Vince said with a cheeky wink. Curiosity lingered on his face, running along his high cheekbones and curving around his mouth.

"What do you wanna know about?" Howard asked.

"I wanna know about you. I don't know anything" Vince placed a tentative hand on Howard's chest. "Nothin' that would stand up in a court of law, anyway. That's why you're such a good criminal, I reckon. You make people think that there ain't anything to say about you n' so they don't ask n' you get left alone. But that's Nicholas Jones. That ain't Howard Moon, 'coz I know that he's fascinating and I want to know everything about him…'bout you"

Howard's throat had dried, not unpleasantly, at this speech. He said nothing. Vince rolled his eyes affectionately. "Alright…what was your first ever unlawful act?" He spoke the words as if he were tasting them, rolling them around in his mouth.

"I stole some Ribena from Morrisons" Howard said after a moment's pause. Vince's mouth pressed together, and he looked as if he were trying not to laugh. He was failing. Howard's stomach flipped over like a coin. "Oh, shut up. I was twelve"

"Why d'ya do it?"

"Because…" Howard paused for a moment, letting the word suspend in the air. "Oh, I don't know. I didn't have any money and I wanted a drink, I suppose. I wasn't one of those bored kids that just steal stuff for the hell of it"

"I bet you didn't have an awful home life either. You defy the norms of bank robbery"

Howard laughed. "That I do, sir. I never took stuff that I didn't need. But then I got caught when I was fourteen. I'm still not allowed in the Leeds Morrisons"

Vince gave up at that point, and squashed a pillow into his face as he laughed with pure, unbridled glee. His shoulder shook, his body racked with mirth. Tears that weren't streaked with mascara slid down the steep crevasses of his cheeks. He bent double, falling limply into his lap, his black hair flowing over the bedspread. And Howard laughed too, even though it wasn't even that funny, because Vince's happiness was too much to handle.

"So how did you move from supermarkets to banks? Bit of a jump, innit?" Vince asked, once they had gained their composures. Howard lifted the glass frames from his eyes to wipe the tears that had gathered there away.

"Well, that's a longer story"

"Go on. It's not like I have anywhere I'd rather be"

"You soppy git. Well, I guess I'd always had this idea that I wanted to be _known_ for something so after I left Uni I moved to Dalston and did a variety of odd jobs just trying to find my voice. It was around then that I met Ken and Ray-"

"Who're they?" Vince interrupted, looking genuinely puzzled.

"You know Ken and Ray! The guys who were with me when…" He trailed off, embarrassed.

"Oh, right, _them_!" Vince said with a grin. "Never knew their names, did I?"

"Fine…well, I met Ray first, I think. He tried to mug me so I punched him across the face, and then I gave him a plaster because I felt so bad"

Vince snickered again. "Trust you"

"Shut up. I've forgotten where I was now…oh, yeah. Then I fell in with them and a bunch of guys. I didn't know at the time that they were sloping off to rob banks every couple of weeks. I was only in my early twenties then so I was young, just a kid in their eyes. And then they decided that I would be an asset to their work and they dragged me along to a small Cooperative at the end of the road. It was…horrible"

Vince blinked. "Really?" He sounded legitimately surprised. Howard nodded.

"Yeah. It was completely unorganised. They were shooting everywhere; it was a miracle no one else got hurt. In the end they didn't even get any of the money. That's why I keep telling you that planning is so important. If that happened to you…" he trailed off.

Vince paused for a moment. "You said no one _else_…?"

Howard sighed deeply, indulgently. "A stray bullet hit me in the side"

Vince's eyes shot open, and he whistled softly. "Christy!"

"Yeah. I've still got the scar, right on my chest. It's horrid; I hate it. Makes me feel like a freak"

"Howard, you're talking to the guy who's got a scar on his hip from his hair straighteners"

It was Howard's turn to look impressed. "Really?"

"Nicky Clarke. Hottest you can get. Fell asleep on them when I was pissed" Vince rebuked, with a slight hint of pride sparkling in his eyes. Howard shook his head.

"Alright, you win"

"So after that?" Vince prompted.

"Well, Ray and Ken managed to get me out and they got me to a hospital on the other side of London. They must've bribed the doctors or something because I was bandaged up and out, no questions asked"

"You lucky bastard!"

"I know. Anyway, after that they decided to break off from the other group. Said we'd do it by ourselves. And…I suppose we have. For about ten years, now. We were squatting in a flat in Dalston about a knick-knack shop at first, but then after one or two successful heists I moved out here. I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. The guys thought I was mad; didn't understand what I was on about. I just didn't want to spend my whole life in that rut"

"Didn't do it all by yourselves, though, eh?" Vince grinned, and changed tack: "What about your parents?"

"Oh, I still see them sometimes. It's difficult, though. I have to bill all my credit cards and stuff to Nicholas Jones and so they think he's my company boss"

Vince laughed. Underneath the covers he wound a hand, snake like, around Howard's waistline and cuddled closer into him, sharing his warmth.

"Hang on a minute! What about you, Sparkly Jim? I've just bared my life history on a plate but I don't know anything about you either!"

"What d'ya wanna know?" Vince mumbled, his voice muffled against Howard's shirt.

"Hypocrisy, thy name is Noir. Everything"

"You'll need to be a bit more specific than that or I could end up talking about my hair for two hours solid. Believe me, I've tried, and I can"

"Take it from the top, eh?"

"Alright…" Vince mumbled, and he sunk back into the warm sea of duvet, his face a mask of intense concentration. "I grew up in Camden. We had a really cool flat near the Lock, me and my Mum and Dad and my brother-"

"You have a brother?"

"Yeah. Mike. Do you wanna hear the story or not?"

"Yes?"

"Quit interrupting, then. So, I moved out when I was about nineteen 'coz I didn't want to go to college or anything. Just a small flat with a mate of mine, Leroy. I wanted to paint. I sold a couple, as well, but it never really took off or anything so I went into taxi driving just for a day job, and now here I am"

"A bit unexpected, wasn't it? Sorry about that"

"Yeah. Wouldn't swap it for the world, though. I was getting so sick of London. Everyone there's the same, you know. All these pretentious pricks who think they're being so original but they're just copying everyone else. Everyone's so fake. I felt like Holden Caulfield"

Howard chuckled lightly, and wrapped an arm around Vince's shoulders. "I can't believe you've actually read Catcher in the Rye"

"Lots you don't know about me"

"Well, I've got plenty of time to work it all out, haven't I?"

Vince mumbled a sigh of affirmation, his eyes sliding shut again. Howard sighed in grateful relief, and attempted to slip back into the warm arms of slumber. But then Vince's voice cut through the air again: "I don't think I ever wanna leave here"

"Well, that's nice. Does that mean I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life?"

"Yeah, sorry. Remember when we first met n' I said: I'll be sticking to you like a limpet. You won't have a choice?"

"Didn't think it would be quite so literal"

"I like your house. It's like my home, now. Not that I don't like my flat, my flat's completely genius. It's all bright and colourful. We used to have these absolutely mad parties. You'd have absolutely hated it…" His eyes sparked something, a flash of recognition, and he grinned nostalgically. "I had a cat once…" he mused. "It was called Spider" He suddenly started giggling frantically: "Oh, you'll love this. We had a party once, right, and it was proper mental. And we found the cat the next morning and it was going insane, scratching and hissing and that. It turned out that it had eaten some Ecstasy off the floor and was completely off its tits! And so me mate Dave, he was a bit hung-over and he said we should put it somewhere dark and comfortable and so we…" He doubled over, in hysterics. "We trapped it in the sock drawer!"

"What?" Howard said, feeling the first rumbles of laughter bubble in his throat. "The sock drawer? Why the hell did you do that?"

"I dunno – I think he'd seen it on the internet or something. Stupid fuck. Poor Spider; he wouldn't look at me for ages" He shook his head in disbelief at his own previous actions. "Gave up on the parties, anyway. They just got boring. Getting drunk is _so_ uninteresting. But this is still my home, now. It's like the flat was where I wanted to be young, n' now I've grown up here. Can't imagine being anywhere else. Best place for a convicted felon"

Howard chuckled, and pressed a fond kiss to the top of Vince's head. The younger man squirmed, delighted: "What was your squat in Dalston like? Sounds genius"

"God, the Landlord was a complete stoner. The whole place stank the whole time"

"Nice…" Vince mumbled dryly.

"Yeah. And we used to have people popping in and out constantly. The bathroom was a mess. But it was quite nice, really. A nice flat, _and_ the shop sold jazz records"

"Oh, dear God!"

Howard gave a barking, deliberate laugh. "Hah! Not everyone has a shrine to Mick Jagger in their bedroom, Vince"

"That wasn't a Jagger shrine!" Vince protested. "That was a collage and a candle. I was bored!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever"

Vince traced a small pattern over his chest with his finger. "I'm not bored now, though…"

He winked suggestively. Howard sighed.

"Absolutely not. No"

The little man's eyes widened in mock astonishment. "What do you mean, no?"

"It's too early"

"You're so old, Howard. I'm giving you the opportunity for a mind-blowing shag and you say no?"

"Piss off!" Howard muttered affectionately. "You're not God's gift to the world, y'know"

"I bloody well am. God looked down on the Earth and decided he would glam things up a little"

"Sorry. I don't believe in God. You were just put here to please me, I'm afraid"

"You don't believe in God?" Vince cried sarcastically. "And here I was convinced you were a devout Jehovah's Witness! Oh well. Being here to please you doesn't sound so bad"

"Brilliant. You can go and get me a paper, then…oof!"

Vince's faux-seductive expression had fallen from his face, and he had grabbed the pillow and thwacked it against Howard's face. The blow startled the older Northerner, and he shook his head, and then picked up the glasses from where they had fallen on the bedspread. Then he and Vince were laughing raucously, and Howard decided that he must have been a saint in his past life if this was what he was rewarded with, because the sun was shining and Vince was smiling and they were together, and now he knew what it was like to touch that skin with his hands, and he wouldn't have had his life any other way ever. This moment was perfect. And then Vince reached up and kissed him, and the sheer brilliance of the moment was magnified five thousand times like a diamond under a microscope. These were morning kisses: slow and laborious, just pure movement. A hand stroked his cheek, and Vince only pulled away when the requirement of oxygen became too much to ignore. He fell back on the pillow, exerted.

"Alright there, small eyes?"

"Yep, I'm…just dandy, Vince"

"You so couldn't pull off the dandy look" his companion laughed.

"More your area of expertise, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Punk one day, mod the next…" Vince muttered. Howard noted the edge of bitterness that hadn't been there before. "The electronic prostitute. Who do you want me to be? I just felt empty, y'know, like a beach ball? There wasn't nothing inside"

Howard placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Shut up, you. You're wonderful. Even when you're pointing a gun at my head you're wonderful. You're bright and sweet and _incredibly _sexy. Don't say you're not"

Vince smiled – no, beamed at him. "Cheers, H'ward"

And then the phone rang.

Howard jumped, his brows furrowing as the shrill sound echoed around the house, tantalising and menacing. Vince pulled the covers tighter around him.

"Who's that?"

"I've no bloody clue" Howard mumbled, and he swung himself out of bed, wincing as the cold air struck itself against the exposed areas of his body. His bare feet touched the carpet, and he grabbed a blue flannel dressing gown from where it had been slung unceremoniously on the edge of the dresser. He moved downstairs, quickly, as the ringing grew more insistent, like a wailing child. He dragged his hands to clear the hair from his eyes, and grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

"Moon! S'been a long time!"

Howard sighed, and pressed his face into his hands. "Ok, you two have got to stop calling me unexpectedly! It's unbelievably unnerving"

"Jesus, Howie!" came the jovial tones of his Irish friend. "Lighten up, will ya? What, you want me to pre-arrange a telephone call for you? I'll make a note with your secretary"

Howard sighed, choosing to ignore the nickname. "What do you want, Ken?"

"Well, aren't we cheerful this fair morn?" Ken mocked, his voice made even more croaky and harsh by the landline. There was a tense pause. "Listen, me and Ray are coming up"

Howard's throat went dry.

"What? _When_?"

"Tomorrow"

The man nearly choked. "You're not serious. Are you? Please say you're not serious"

"Deadly serious, Moon. Me and Ray were talkin' last night, and we got to thinking…how long's that kid been with you?"

Howard gritted his teeth. "A month…"

"What's that you say?"

"A month. And his name's Vince"

"A month's a long time, ain't it? You been training him up?"

"Yes…" Howard replied uncertainly, having lost the direction of the conversation.

"Good, good…is he good?"

"He's a natural, Ken. Holds a gun like a hairdryer. Why?"

"Oh, don't be so suspicious! We thought that maybe it would be time to…slick the wheels a little. Test the waters. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"No, Ken. We can't. It's far, far too early, he-"

"You said he was a natural" Ken said quietly. "There something you're hiding from us, Moon? You and your secret weapon, up there in Kent. Remember, me and Ray, we're part of this little thing we've got going on here. We want in. Don't worry; we're not going for the Bank Royale or anything. We just wanna know if he's any good"

Howard sighed, reluctantly. "So what's the plan?"

"Hey, that's more like it, Howard! Listen, me and the boy will come up tomorrow morning. We can plan this shit out, get it over and done with by Monday, alright?"

"Monday? What the fuck am I supposed to tell work?"

"…Work?"

Howard exploded. "Yes, Ken, my fucking job! I actually have a life outside this whole fucked up business, alright? I can't just drop it and rob banks on a whim, I-"

"Cool your boots, Moon. Just tell them your mum died or something"

"Oh, Jesus Chri-…fine!" Howard sighed.

"Brilliant. See you tomorrow, then"

The line went dead. Howard's head turned to the top of the stairs, where Vince was perched, looking down like some inquisitive bird, wrapped up in the duvet. He joined him, sitting on the top step, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"It's odd…" Vince said. "I think I'm meant to be feeling excited, but I…I dunno"

"You're alright, little man. I won't let anything happen to you"

A small hand found his. "Cheers, Howard"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Note – Happy New Year! Thank you to all my readers and reviewers, especially the ones who have faithfully done so since the very beginning (I'm looking at you, Stronger Than A Moose, gwingwin and Puck). I own nothing except Ray and Ken, which, on second thoughts, I'm actually quite proud of. Unfortunately, it's another short one because I am too, too swamped at the moment but I didn't want to keep you waiting too long, so here it is!**_

**Sunday 13****th**** November 2003**

Vince, for all his confident talk and casual demeanor, was undoubtedly nervous. He was crouched upon "his" chair in the living room, staring blankly out the window and either chewing on his fingernails or beating a tune on his knees. Howard had had to let him be, for the most part, because everything that his partner was feeling he was feeling too, only on a slightly larger scale. He would call in sick for work; his low-key job had an advantage in that there was always someone to cover for him and his boss barely cared about the attendance of his employees. The problem was timing – to pull this off, they'd have to plan meticulously today, carry it out tomorrow and be back by the evening so that he could go in the next morning, hopefully a couple of hundred grand richer. He didn't care too much about the money, though; as long as Vince was alright. God knows what Ken and Ray meant by "testing him out"…

In a fit of bravery, he went and sat himself down on the sofa adjacent to his younger lover. Vince looked up at him, his usually curved lips set into a straight line, his eyes powdery. Howard smiled at him, and the mouth quirked momentarily upwards, and then was still.

Howard sighed: "You alright, little man?"

"Yeah. Jus' a bit nervous, s'all." Vince mumbled. He stuck his little finger between his teeth and twisted it, wrenching away the already sanded-down nail.

"You'll be fine. They're thick bastards, but alright once you get to know them. Anyway, they're friends of mine. They won't touch you."

Vince nodded wanly and folded his arms, his hands grabbing onto the skin. "Yeah, alright."

Then, with the sort of perfect timing that only Ken and Ray could accidentally achieve, there came the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. Vince made no movement to peek through the thin curtain that shielded the public from the room. Reluctantly, Howard got to his feet. He gave Vince a look of complete, unspoken support. Vince, momentarily, smiled back at him.

Howard moved through into the hallway, breathed, and opened the door.

"Howard!" Ken called out as soon as he emerged from the car with a wave. Howard shut the door behind him in a pathetic gesture to keep Vince safe for a few more minutes, and smiled at his friends as he came down the steps to greet them. Then, he stopped.

"Jesus…" he said to himself. He felt his eyes widen, as much as they could. Ken approached him, and he suddenly snapped back into reality when his Irish friend took his hand to shake it.

"You bastard…" he said wonderingly. "You said it was gone."

For there, in front of him and from which Ray was currently struggling to emerge, sat the little mint-blue taxi that had taken them away to safety all those months ago.

Ken shrugged. "No, _Ray_ said it was gone. _I_ took it back to Archie and got it fixed up." He leant in closer so that Ray couldn't hear the conversation. "You can't play games with me, Moon. I guessed about you and the kid."

Howard's eyes widened for the second time in the last thirty seconds. Ken smiled.

"Don't worry; I ain't said nothing to Ray and I ain't gonna. But don't keep shit like that from us, Howard. And hey, if he means that much to ya it's worth the price of a fixed car."

"Thank you." Howard said sincerely.

Ken nodded: "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't."

By this point, Ray had managed to haul himself out of the car and had joined them on the steps.

"Alright, Moon?" he greeted, clapping Howard on the back.

"Hello, Baker, if we're sticking with the surname thing."

"You gonna let us in or what?" Ray grinned. Howard, nodded, gritted his teeth, and opened the front door. The men poured through into the hallway.

Vince emerged quietly from behind the doorway, and Howard thanked all that ever had been or would be holy that his lover had opted for a less flamboyant style than usual: the black jeans, the ones that had been bought by Howard months back; a neon-green t-shirt and the red boots that he had worn when they first met. His arms were folded, his hair hanging limply around his anxious, un-made-up face.

Ken and Ray faced Vince with predatory interest. It was Ray who spoke first:

"Alright, lad?"

"Alright?" Vince replied, but his voice was hoarse and the greeting only came out as whisper.

"What was that? Speak up. I remember you being a mouthy little brat when we last met."

Howard could see Vince silently fuming, and he stepped forward to help: "Cut of tea, anyone?"

"Yeah, I'll have a brew." Ken quickly accepted, sensing the tension around him.

But Ray wasn't giving up: "What's your name, boy?"

"I'm Vince Noir, rock n roll star." Vince said with a cheeky grin, confidence returning and gushing like a stream from his smile. Howard silently cheered.

Ray scoffed: "Are you really? Howard here says you're good with a gun. That true?"

"Yeah. I'm a natural."

"Well, we'll see about that."

"Yeah, we will."

Ray sneered. "Yeah. We will."

"Ok!" Howard butted in quickly. "You two make yourselves at home. Not too at home, boys, you're not spilling tea on my new sofa again."

He tried to push past Vince to get into the kitchen, but suddenly a small, cool hand wrapped its way around his. He looked down at where the youngest man was giving him a smouldering look, the blue eyes flicking from his face to the gunmen, asserting his dominance over them. Howard's heart sank, and as his startled eyes glanced over at his friends, it was clear that the atmosphere had shifted – Ken looked vaguely nauseous, but Ray was sneering in a disbelieving way that made the Northerner break out into a cold sweat. Vince dropped his hand.

"I'll go put the tea on, shall I?" he said, faux-seductively, and sauntered into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him with a wink.

There was a moment of silence. Then Ray blinked.

"What the fuck was all that about, then?" His tone made it perfectly clear that he already knew.

Howard swallowed. When had his throat dried? "Ok, let me explain-"

"What are you now, his sugar daddy?" his friend asked, and his voice was raised dangerously.

Involuntarily, Howard pushed himself slightly against the wall, and then cursed himself for showing even the slightest sign of anxiety. Ray wouldn't hurt him, would he? After all, he _was_ a man with a gun. An angry man with a gun, nonetheless…

"Look, sir, before you get angry-"

"Can't help being angry when I'm furious. It's bad enough that he's still 'ere…"

"It's called precaution, Ray!" Howard snapped. "Something you should probably remember when you're out bragging to your hookers."

Ray's fat upper lip curled. "Least my hookers don't look like _that_."

Howard wasn't entirely sure what happened after that. He heard a stiff gasp behind him, and then Vince was out of the kitchen. The black-haired man walked across the hall and reached up and punched – not slapped as expected, but _punched_ – Ray right across the face with what could only be described as an "arm in short, in with the claw" moment. There was a sickening crunch, and Howard winced, imagining the black spots that would be dancing across his friend's vision. Ray bellowed in pain, fell to his knees, and clasped his hand to his face. When he pulled it away, thick clots of blood fell and spattered all over Howard's floor. Ken's face was slack at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Vince was screaming obscenities, his hair wild and his face twisted in pure, unadulterated rage, and Howard lunged to haul his boyfriend (really?) from launching another attack. Hand shaking, Ray tentatively touched his probably broken nose and his brows furrowed at the liquid on his fingers. Vince was writhing like an eel in Howard's grasp.

"You little _cock-sucker_!" Ray roared. Vince twisted out of Howard's firm grip and dashed off up the stairs as quickly as possible, still swearing at the man on the floor.

Howard sighed, and went to fetch the ice.

Once Ray was patched up (his nose wasn't broken after all, just bruised) he was taken into the living room by Ken. Only then did Howard quietly slip up the stairs after his partner. He found Vince sitting on their bed, arms wrapped around his torso, back to the door and hunched over, still muttering to himself:

"Fucking ugly fat fucking piece of shit what a fucking _c_-"

Howard quietly crossed the room, and placed a hand on Vince's shoulder. Almost immediately, the boy reached up and grasped it in an uncharacteristically needy gesture, silenced.

"At least it was a good punch." Howard said after a moment. Vince was quiet, and then he chuckled lowly to himself. Howard smiled, and sat down on the bed next to him.

"You know, it would be nice to have those two over one time where nobody ends up bleeding."

"M'sorry…" Vince mumbled.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. You were provoked. I'd have done the same."

Vince breathed, shakily, and it was only then that Howard noticed the salty tear-tracks on his bone structure. "Yeah, alright…"

"Hey," Vince turned to him, and Howard smiled gently. "You're fucking gorgeous. Don't listen to Ray. The old bastard wouldn't know good looks if it fucked him, alright?"

Vince smiled, and the sparkle was back in his eyes. "You old fucking romantic. You've gone all soft. You're like a panda."

"Yeah, whatever. You coming back down or what?"

Vince ran a hand through his hair, stylishly tousling it, and ran his hands over his face. He looked at Howard, and smiled dazzlingly. "Yeah, ok."

Howard took his hand and led him back downstairs. Ray was sitting on the sofa, clutching a bloody rag to his face. He glared at Vince when they entered, and there was a moment of tension, but then he took the cloth away and slowly nodded.

"Nice punch, Noir. That might come in handy." He turned to Howard: "Reckon you've got yourself a keeper there, Moon."

Figuring that was the best apology they were going to get, Howard nodded, and went next door to get the tea, ignoring the pleading look Vince shot him. Even still, in the kitchen he kept listening out for any signs of trouble. He knew Vince could take care of himself, he was certain of it; but Ray was bigger, and stronger, and more experienced. Still, he wasn't going to be too over-protective. He wasn't Vince's father, perish the thought. Instead, he soaked the teabags, put them in the recycling bin and took the beverages through. Vince had been displaced from his chair by Ken and looked distinctly uncomfortable at his place next to Ray on the sofa. The older man passed around the tea, and then, noting an obvious lack of seats, sat down on the floor.

"Right. So what's the plan?"

"We ain't got a plan yet." Ken replied. Vince sipped at his tea – white, two sugars, Jagger mug.

"Right…" Howard got to his feet and retrieved the notebook and biro from the hallway drawer. He set it down in front of him, and flicked through pages of notes until he got to a blank page. "You two have actually_ seen_ this place, haven't you?"

"Course!" Ray scoffed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled pieces of paper and passed them to Howard. They were photographs, four in total, showing the front and sides views of a small bank; a Barclays.

"Where's this?"

"Shoreditch." Ray briefly replied. "It's only a small one."

"Ok." Howard said. "Entrance is…here, here and here?"

"Exactly."

"Right. Have you got a map?"

Ken fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a small A-Z. He flicked through the pages until he found the right one. The spot in question was circled. Howard took it, and studied it carefully.

"So if we're coming from North, we can go down this main road here…" he muttered. "And come out onto that alleyway to park. What time were you thinking?"

"It's a staff training day tomorrow from twelve to six," said Ken. "So if we go in for about two the place should be pretty much deserted. Shame, really. It's more fun with people."

"You are a sick, sick man, you know that…?" Howard replied half-heartedly. Ken chuckled darkly, and out of the corner of his eyes Howard saw Vince suppress a shiver.

"So if we go in for two," Ray butted in, "Shouldn't take long, if nobody's going to be there…half an hour?"

"At the most," Howard agreed, and jotted the information down.

"That's nice and easy. We can go in from the front in that case," Ken said.

"Really?" Howard looked skeptical. "That sounds like it's asking for trouble. I reckon we take the door in from that side over here." He stabbed at the map with his finger.

"What? We don't even know where that door goes; we could end up in a storage cupboard."

"Why don't we go round the back?" a small voice piped up. It was Vince, and he shrunk under the three gazes that were suddenly upon him. "Take it from behind."

There was a pause. Ray leant over and grabbed the A-Z. "What, so you think that we come in from up here and then go around?"

"No, no…" Vince took the map off him and laid it flat on the table. "We come in from the back, just there. We park on that side street there – the one that's by that entrance – and go in from there. We'll get in and out as soon as possible, right?"

For a moment, nobody spoke. Howard looked up at Vince, who was anxiously biting his nail. Then, slowly, Ken nodded.

"Yeah. I guess that could work."

Vince smiled to himself. Howard felt his chest might rip open with pride. But then, of course, there would be more blood to clean up, so he swallowed it down and winked at Vince.

"Ok, so we're…" Ray took the map again and grabbed the biro. "Coming from up here." He drew a shaky line down the road that he was following. "We go down this road, right here, and then we park here." He circled the avenue. "We go in from here, attack from here…" He jabbed at the stop with the pen, leaving a small dot embedded on the page. "And _then_ we go back out the other side. Back to mine after that? It's closest. Should be there by about three. You and the kid can get back on the road and be back here for, what, five?"

Howard nodded slowly. "Perfect…that's perfect."

"Your first job, Vincey." Ray slapped Vince on the back, ignoring the sharp hiss of breath at the contact. "Think you're gonna be up to it?"

"He'll be fine," Howard quickly cut in. "I told you already, he's brilliant."

"So what happens if we run into any trouble?" Ken said, quickly changing the subject.

"Can't believe _you're _bringing that up," Ray supplied helpfully. "That's Howard's shtick."

Ken grinned: "You're a cock."

"Right back atcha."

"Gentlemen!" Howard sighed, desperately seeking to gain the attention of his colleagues. "As much as I loathe saying it, Ken is right."

"We've got our guns, ain't we?" Ray scoffed.

"Well, yeah, but we're hardly just going to rush in and start shooting people, are we?" said Howard. "Those are just for threat."

"Even though, they should be enough. We can take down any security guards."

"Sometimes your naïve optimism worries me." Howard sighed. "How are we going to get out if something does go wrong? I know it's a rare occurrence, but sometimes something _fucks up_…" He shot a pointed look at Ray, who rolled his eyes.

"Well, obvious, ain't it?" Ken said. "We split. You take Vince back up through the way we came in and Ray and I will take the front. Then you two drive round and pick us up."

There were general mutters of approval around the table.

"Wait, aren't we going to have someone to wait in the car?" Vince suddenly piped up. He looked down at Howard. "I thought you said…"

"Nah, it's only a tiny job. There's not much point," said Ken.

"We'll be backing you up." Ray nodded.

The corners of Vince's mouth turned down in a grimace of acceptance, and he nodded.

"That's everything covered," the Irishman pronounced, leaning back into the chair. Howard shook his head, frowned and gazed at him.

"There has to be something we've missed," he said. "This is too simple."

"Relax, Moon," said Ray. "Me and the boy have checked this place out; we'll be fine. Anyway, knowing you you'll have covered every possibility in your head since we got here."

Howard sighed deeply. "This doesn't feel right. It's too easy."

"When will you stop worrying and learn to enjoy it?" replied the exasperated West-Countryman. "This lifestyle is meant to be fun!"

Howard scratched his moustache. The three men in his living room were gazing at him intently, and it was unnerving.

"Vince…?"

Vince's blue eyes snapped up from where they'd been staring at the floor.

"What do you think?" Howard asked. The younger man's brows furrowed, and for a moment he looked lost. Howard's stomach twisted. He hated having to put anyone, least of all someone important, in such a difficult position, but he knew that he wasn't doing Vince any good by sheltering him either. His partner had been oddly subdued, and he had guessed that it was due to the intimidating personalities of the professionals. He needed to be a part of it.

Vince nodded: "I think it sounds alright. I mean, s'always good to be prepared, but…" his gaze shifted away from Howard, "But it's only small. There isn't going to be anyone there."

Howard sat back. "Alright. But if anything goes wrong, I'm holding you two personally responsible."

Ray and Ken just grinned at him.

* * *

The two men had been fed and put to bed in different rooms in the house; Ray in the spare room opposite and Ken in the attic room that had once belonged to Vince. The man in question wasn't in the master bedroom when Howard walked in. He'd gone up to wash his hair about an hour ago, and Howard had been expecting him to be reclining on the bed reading a magazine, but he wasn't. He didn't have to look too far, though. The curtains were still drawn away from the large glass window, but were billowing slightly from the wind as the sliding door that led out onto the small balcony was ajar. Though it was pitch black outside, Howard could see the silhouette of Vince leaning against the railings. He pulled the door back further, and almost silent went to stand next to him. For a moment, neither man spoke. Vince broke the silence first:

"I like being able to see the stars. Never got to in London."

Howard craned his neck up at the sky. Sure enough, the rich tapestry was flecked with little spatters of gleaming white.

"Now who's being soppy?" he chided, and Vince laughed. "You shouldn't be out here with wet hair, you know. The last thing I want is for you to get pneumonia."

"Nah, I'll be alright," the young man replied. His face was tilted up towards the full moon, his hair dripping lavishly onto his shoulders and staining through the white shirt he slept in. "M'sorry I didn't back you up earlier."

"Ah, forget it. You're perfectly capable of independant thought."

Howard turned away from him, and stared out at the view. Although his vision was impaired by the impending darkness, he had gazed out on it enough times to be able to picture it in broad daylight. The sea, like a pool of ink against the blotting-paper sand, made a quiet shushing sound as it met the shoreline. That sea went on for as far as the eye could see it, eventually meeting the sky in a faint line where black met black. When he had first moved here from Dalston, the continuity of the element unnerved him, but he had got used to it, as he had the incessant cars and streetlamps of London, and now it only calmed him. He would never want to be anywhere else.

"You'll be alright tomorrow, you know…" he said, barely away that he had said it. His voice rose gently, like a moth from his lips, the flutter of its wings barely disturbing the quiet night.

"I know," Vince replied, equally as subdued. It seemed even he could appreciate the silence that Whitstable evenings required. "I mean, I'm nervous, who wouldn't be? But it's exciting, ain't it? It's what I've been wanting almost since I met you. It's all…exhilarating. Life's wasted on the living sometimes, but, you 'n me, Howard, we're living it to the full."

Howard chuckled. "You're going to be great."

"I know I am!"

"You cheeky vixen."

Vince turned to him and grinned. "You love it, really."

"That I do, little man."

Vince winked, and turned his face back down to the view. The single streetlamp cast a fragrant orange over the sea wall. Howard didn't take his eyes off his partner's face, drinking it in, watching as the expression creased from tranquility into…surprise?

"Bloody hell…" Vince muttered, and he laughed in shock. "That's my car. That's my fucking car! They brought it back, Howard!"

Howard blushed. "Oh, yeah…forgot about that…"

Vince was gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles white against the metal. He was smiling so widely, his face smooth with the Botox effect of the grin. Howard felt a sudden, overpowering rush of affection that almost sent him reeling, and he reached out with one hand and grabbed Vince's wrist and pulled him towards him. However, instead of the romantic spin-into-open-arms he had envisioned, Vince gave a startled yelp and tottered ungracefully backwards, crashing into Howard's chest sending the Northerner against the railings. Howard winced as the metal banged against his hip.

"Oh, shit, sorry!" Vince exclaimed, his eyes wide. Howard laughed, and shook his head.

"Doesn't matter. Shall I try that one again?"

He pulled Vince gently towards him, and enveloped him with his arms. Hair tickled at the curve between his neck and shoulder and he was shrouded by warmth against the cold night air. He pressed a kiss to the top of Vince's head and just held him, looking out at the sky. They stayed there like that for a short while, until Vince broke the silence:

"Y'know, if this was any more sentimental it would be bordering on uncharacteristic."

"Hush your lips, Jimmy-Mood-Breaker. It's all your fault. You've brought out the old-fashioned romantic in me."

"Yeah, well. C'mon, I'm going to bed. If I stay up any later I'll start thinking about how badly that balaclava's going to cock up my hair."

He pulled out of Howard's grip, and stepped back through the glass doors back into the room. He turned, and gave Howard a seductive look: "Coming?"

Howard swallowed. "But…next door…"

Vince smirked. "Don't give a shit. You coming or what?"

"Oh, God yes…"


	8. Chapter 8

_**Note – Ok, my major terrifying exam is finally over! This means I have infinitely more time to concentrate on my writing and this lovely, lovely forum. But here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for (or not) – I know, fast, eh? I suddenly got inspired, so I've been writing non-stop since last Thursday, and I'm now aiming to have this all wrapped up by February. Finally, I would just like to apologize for the appallingly-written action scenes. Enjoy.**_

**Monday 14****th**** November 2003**

In the end, Ken had insisted on driving. Vince had put up a fight, claiming rightful ownership over his own vehicle, but in the end had been beaten down by the Irishman's arguments that it was better for someone experienced to be behind the wheel. Nevertheless, Vince was clearly relishing being back in his car. Howard had a vague recollection of Vince saying that he liked his car because of the noise, but he obviously took great pride and fondness in it, lovingly sliding into the leather seats with a blissful sigh as they set out towards London. Howard had been forced, against his own will, into the front seat, but he kept glancing into the rearview mirror to check on his lover behind him. Vince was betraying little emotion. He was clad in his black jeans with a very tight-fitting black jumper that made him look like a minimalist actor with an oversized black coat (borrowed from Howard, of course), and the only sound to give his nervousness away was the tiny taps against his legs, the rhythm as rambling as any jazz improvisation. Howard suspected nobody else had noticed this detail. Ray and Ken were bickering to his left and diagonally behind him about the amount they were planning to steal as they tried to write the note, something Howard never got involved in. He'd take what he was given, thank you very much. He wasn't going to claim he was Robin Hood or anything (the Vince-voice in his head laughed and remarked at how bad the green tights would look on him) but he wasn't greedy. Each man's individual briefcase, carrying both gun and balaclava, sat at their feet.

"No, no, you're being an _arse_," Ken was currently claiming, his voice exasperated. "That is a ridiculous amount!"

"I don't give a shit!" Ray replied, equally as annoyed.

"Shut up, you two…" Howard said, not really meaning it; aiming for pretence at peace-keeping rather than actually trying to break up two violent men.

"Christ, this traffic is bullshit…" Ken sighed, gazing out at the row upon row of cars that stretched out in front of them. "Can't the cunts see we have somewhere to be?"

"Language, Ken."

"Fuck off, Nichol-arse."

Howard raised his eyebrows, but decided not to press the issue. The traffic wasn't even that bad, it had just thrown the driver a bit. After all, they could plan everything out meticulously, cover every tiny little detail, but you couldn't prepare for a spontaneous car crash on the A102. Ken and Ray were getting ratty because of it – they could brag all they liked, but Howard knew for a fact that they preferred flawless planning almost as much as he did, and so when something didn't go right it irritated them. Even he was starting to get anxious; he just didn't want to show it in case Vince saw. He needed to be confident, and seeing his mentor panic wouldn't help at all.

"You can talk." Ray said instead. "You've got a stupid name."

"Benny Silver is not a stupid name. It's dignified."

"It makes you sound like a stupid fuck."

"Yeah, well, what sort of name is Mike Watt, anyway?"

"Bugger off. At least it's normal!"

"Gentlemen, would you please be so kind as to shut the fuck up?" Howard groaned. Luckily, it seemed that neither man was in the mood to put up a fight, at least not with Howard. They seemed to have learnt not to test him when he swore, and so settled back into their seats.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then Ken spoke up:

"Oh, Christy, fuck this. I'm going to turn off over there." He pointed to a turn off.

"No, Ken, that'll take us in completely the wrong direction." Howard sighed.

"I don't give a shit; we've been crawling along here for ages. I'm doing it."

"No, no, stop, what're you…"

But Ken had already grasped the steering wheel and hauled the car sharply to the left. Howard thanked small miracles for seatbelts as the car swerved.

"No, what are you doing?" he groaned. "This is going to take us in completely the wrong direction!"

"No it isn't, shut up." Ray reprimanded. "It's just a slightly more roundabout way of doing things and it misses out the traffic. I know where we're going."

"Are we meant to be going towards Bethnal Green?" Ray asked. Ken looked up at the green sign as it passed by and swore under his breath.

"Shit…it's not meant to say that…"

"Oh, for Christy's sake!" Ray groaned. Howard thumped his head against the dashboard.

"No, no, it's fine. Pass me the A-Z." Ken said. Ray fumbled in his pockets and pulled out the dingy-looking map. He flicked through it slowly.

"Hurry up, gobshite! How long does it take to find a page?"

"Well, if you hadn't gone in the wrong direction…"

"You lot are useless." Vince suddenly piped up in the back.

"Shut up!" The men chorused, and the boy sat back with a smirk on his face.

* * *

The alleyway was deserted, and Howard was hit was memories of his own flat in Dalston when he saw the pock-marked pavements and the battered, deformed pigeons that warily eyed him as he got out of the car. The road was, luckily, between two back ends of buildings, and he could see the gaping car-park entrance a short stretch away, inviting him in. He swung his legs out of the car and his feet, in patent leather brogues, hit the floor with a satisfying clack. He slammed the door quietly behind him, and turned to where Vince was just emerging from the seat behind him, a grimly determined look on his face. Ken locked the car, and turned to say something to Ray. Howard took the opportunity, and grabbed Vince's wrist gently.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, not wanting to draw attention. "Because if you want to skip this one out you can have my share."

"What, all that training for nothing? You're out of your mind, small eyes. I wouldn't miss this for the world," Vince grinned, and he pulled his wrist lightly from Howard's grasp and grinned. Howard smiled back, and slowly nodded. He turned to his friends.

"Right, it took three minutes last time, you up for breaking that record?"

Ken chucked, and pulled the balaclava over his face. Immediately, the sound became almost disembodied, as if the black ensemble made him invisible. The rest of the men soundlessly followed suit. Howard winced at the scratchy material clawed at the skin on his face; smothered his mouth so his breath was trapped and made him feel hot and uncomfortable. He turned to Vince, and gazed at the big blue eyes that shone through the hole. Then he pulled on his gloves, and felt reassuringly for the loaded gun in his pocket.

"Ah, this bloody shit thing. It's itchy as hell…" Ray muttered, tugging at his neck.

"Is that right, Ray?" Ken replied sarcastically.

"Doesn't yours itch?"

"Of course it does! But you don't hear me complaining about it, do you?"

Howard shot them both a look and they fell silent. With some degree of purpose, he began to walk towards the entrance of the car park. After a moment, there was the sound of quick footsteps behind him and Vince joined him at his side, briefcases knocking into each other as they walked. Ray and Ken took up the rear behind them.

Howard checked his watch as they silently ducked under the electronically-manned barrier that led into the car park. It was already ten to three – the traffic had buggered up their schedule somewhat, but that wasn't disastrous.

The place was eerily quiet; the only sound the clack of shoes on the concrete and the hallowed breathing. It was cold, too, as if the stone walls and the stone floor had stored the winter harshness for a moment in which self-defense would be needed. The lights that hung from the ceiling cast almost no brightness at all, and just served to give a room a pale and sickly pallor. There was a stench of petrol and carbon and fear.

"Just remember…" Howard muttered under his breath, "If anything goes wrong, and I mean _anything_, get yourself out. I mean it. Don't hang around; don't try anything fancy, just get out."

"Shut up, nothing's gonna go wrong." Vince said with an affectionate smile. "It's like Ray said. We'll be back home by five. If anything happens you can come at them like…"

"Like a ray, like a beam, like a buzzard, little man."

"Exactly."

They had come to a stop by a flight of stairs that smelt vaguely of something Howard didn't want to think about. The door squeaked open when Howard pulled it, and his hands were already beginning to sweat inside his gloves. He'd done this many, many times before – more than he really wanted to acknowledge – but still that same clammy sense of fear clogged up against his spine. Decompression sickness. Coming up for air was terrifying every time.

"Right…" he muttered. He glanced at Vince. The boy had lightning in his eyes. "Let's go."

He opened the stiff, plastic door and emerged into an empty hall. The walls were so white they stung his eyes. The carpet was blue, a similar cornflower shade to the one in his house, but spattered with a clinical pattern that made it look cheap and tacky rather than luxuriant and expensive. There were a couple of pot plants in the corners, and an idiotically-placed sign on the door pointed a helpful arrow in the direction of the customer service area. Howard felt for the gun in his pocket, his heart both speeding and relaxing at the anxiety but reassurance of its presence.

He turned, and met three pairs of eyes, one brighter than he had ever seen them.

"Ready?" When had he become the ringleader, anyway?

"Yeah," That was Ray, usually so brash and excited, now completely subdued. Howard knew that they weren't sharing his anxiety. Sure, if something happened and (God forbid) Vince died or was injured, it would be bad luck, and they'd feel for the loss of their friend, but it wouldn't affect _them_. They were nervous, Howard knew, in case they cocked up again. They had never had a losing streak, and they weren't prepared to have one now.

"Ok, Vince," Ken said. "Your time to shine."

Vince nodded, and moved slowly towards the door. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket, and then he pushed his way through and he was gone.

The three bank robbers were silent. Howard shut his eyes, picturing the scene. Vince walking up to the one girl manning a desk in a deserted bank. Vince sliding the note underneath the glass window. The girl breathing hard as she read the note. The girl passing clusters of notes underneath the window where Vince packed them tightly into his suitcase…

A piercing noise ripped through the air. Howard looked around him, dazed at the suddenness of the sound and momentarily unaware.

"Shit! That's the alarm!" Ray shouted over the noise. All at once, the men barreled towards the door. Howard got there first, shoving it open with his shoulder, his gun already out of his pocket and in his gloved hand.

The first thing he heard was screams, and the rational part of his brain told him that something wasn't right; there shouldn't be so many people...

"_Everybody quiet_!" Ray roared over the alarms and the screams, pushing past Howard with Ken to stand in the centre of the room. Each man had their gun in their hand, pointing it at the crowd. There was a collective gasp from the people in the room and then everybody stopped screaming, but the alarm kept wailing on the wall. Howard cast his eyes around the room for Vince and saw him by the counter, near to a young, red-haired woman, his own weapon pointed at the crowd.

"What the fuck is going on, Claxton?" Howard asked Ken, who was closest to him, quietly as he could so as not to disturb the frightened group. "You said there was a staff training day."

"There was…" Ken muttered, and he turned to the ginger woman who paled as the handgun pointed right at her chest. "You! There was meant to be a training day, what the fuck happened?"

"There was meant to be one…" the girl said, voice shaking, already beginning to cry. "Safety precautions for attack, but it got cancelled…"

"Fuck…" Ken muttered.

Howard cast a look around the room. There were no children, thank God. Most of the people seemed to be London-type businessmen and women, all in suits, stopping by on their lunch break. It was ok. It was salvageable. He could handle this.

"Alright," he said, and the calm authority with which he spoke silenced the quiet sobs and whispers that filled the room. He lowered his gun, and turned towards the clerk.

"What's your name?"

"Cathy…" the girl quietly sobbed.

"Ok, Cathy. We're not going to hurt anyone. All you need to do is follow our instructions and nobody will be hurt. Now, we want the money we came for. Can you get it for us?"

Cathy slowly nodded. She bent down, and typed a number into the system and immediately there was a faint whirring sound as notes flew out of a machine. She gathered them up, and slipped them underneath the glass window, where Vince quietly stashed it away into the briefcase and slipped over to the other side of the room to join his colleagues. The alarm was still mewling above them.

Howard surveyed the room quietly, and then motioned for Ray to back out the way he had come in. The robber went to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. Howard's breathing quickened, and he went to speak, but Ken beat him to it.

"What's up with the door?" he said coldly.

"It's the new security system," Cathy explained, her voice high with fear. "I need to access a code to open it."

"Well then, open the _fucking door_!" Ken shouted.

The girl clenched her eyes shut, and she shook her head.

Ken snarled, and grabbed a young man who was cowering against a wall, pressing the barrel of the gun against his temple. "Open the door, you _fucking bitch_!"

"_Claxton_!" Howard roared, outraged. But Cathy shook her head again and the alarm was still screaming.

There was a gunshot, and the sound of breaking glass. Howard spun around to see Ray, who had shot through the glass window in the door and was leaning through it.

"What are you doing? You can't _climb out_!" Howard yelled.

"Not trying to…" Ray grunted. "Should be a security button…hah!"

There was a faint hum, and then with a push, the door clicked, and slowly swung ajar on an automatic hinge. Ray shouldered it and there was a sound of cracking wood as the door was forced open, and the man motioned with his hand for the others to go through. Howard breathed a sigh of relief as Vince slipped past him, shadow-like. On the other side of the room Ken dropped the young man that he'd had in a headlock, and there was a pitiful mewl as he crumpled to the floor, scared shitless. The Irishman followed the others. Howard breathed a few times, and cast an eye around the room to make sure nothing would flaw the exit. He raised his gun slightly, just a warning, and then backed out the door the same way as the men.

He shut the door, and it clicked.

Howard sighed. "Well, that went well!"

"M'sorry…" Vince breathed softly.

"It's not your fault, little man."

"Yeah, mate. You were alright." Ray chipped in.

"Sure, nice work. You're gonna go far, ki-"

"Drop your weapons!"

Howard spun around, and from the corner of his eye he could see the shocked and angered looks on Ken and Ray's faces. Three men, shielded in body armour, were blocking the corridor. They each held shotguns, and each one was pointed squarely in the direction of the thieves.

"This building is surrounded," the forward-most policeman barked. "Do not move. Drop your weapons and drop the money."

"What the fuck is going on here?" Ray said sarcastically, not making any move to conform to orders. "You lot are supposed to be shite!"

"All London police units have been on high alert since October," stated the policeman. Ray rolled his eyes and began a slow hand-clap, and the way his gloves muffled the noise and the slap of the fabric on the gun handle sent shivers up Howard's spine.

"Clever-clever, hot fuzz!" Ray patronized. "But what happens if we say…" he raised a middle finger at the bemused cops.

"Sir, we advise you to drop your weapons and hand over the briefcase."

"Not very bright, this one," Ken commented. "He's like one of your stuck records, Moon."

It was about that moment that one of the policemen behind the talkative one decided that he'd had enough of the whole damned situation, raised his gun and shot directly at Ken's head. The four men instantly ducked, and when Howard turned around there was a black, smoking hole in the clean white wall next to them.

Then all hell broke loose. Ken shot back in retaliation, and his bullet hit the shoulder of the policeman who had shot at him just a moment ago. The man yelled out in agony and fell back as spurt of blood erupted from the exposed skin, spattering against the wall and blotting purple spots on the carpet. At the noise, the screams from next door started up again. Howard ducked at the bullet that came sailing over his shoulder, and leapt instinctively in front of Vince. In all the confusion, Ray had somehow managed to move forward, and was able to punch the distracted officer across the face and in the stomach and snatch the gun from his feeble hand. The third man tried shooting at his head at point-blank range, but a nicely-timed blow from Ken's gun in the arm made him drop the gun.

There was silence, save for the cries of pain of the men on the floor and the slowly evaporating shrieks as the rest of the bank was evacuated.

Ray nodded at Ken. "Thanks for that, mate."

"Any time."

The two men turned towards Howard. "So what the fuck do we do now, Moon?"

Howard swallowed. "We stick to the plan," he said. His voice was heavy and sticky; clogged like tar in his throat. "You take the front and we go around the back."

Ray nodded, slowly. "What about these bastards?" he said, gesturing to the groaning policemen on the floor.

Howard shook his head and shrugged. "Leave them here. Somebody will find them soon enough; they're hardly going to bleed out."

"Right, then…" Ray said, and he casually stuck his gun back into his pocket. There was a steadily blooming rose of second-hand blood on his shirt. He turned to Ken. "I suppose we'd better get a move on, then."

"Right you are."

"No, hang on a second!" Howard said. He squinted, and rubbed his temples, feeling a headache come on. "Fuck the plan. They said the building was surrounded."

Ken shrugged. "We can take them."

"A whole force? You're out of your fucking minds!"

"Look, Moon, you need to get the kid out of here before anything fucks up even more," reasoned the Irishman. Howard opened his mouth, but was stopped as Ken interrupted him: "You always say we need to stick to the plan. Me and Ray; we'll be alright."

Howard breathed out slowly, and then nodded. "Alright, fine. We'll be round to pick you up in less than ten minutes."

Ray turned to his friend. "C'mon mate. Crunch time…"

Then he and Ken sauntered off round the corner and out of sight. For a moment, neither Howard nor Vince made a move, listening out in the unnerving silence. Then there came the sound of more gunfire, and Howard turned to Vince.

"Ok. Let's go…"

He tried not to notice how visibly Vince was shaking as he took the younger man's gloved hand and guided him past the groaning officers and through the door back into the dingy stairwell. He closed the door, and turned sharply towards his lover.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, m'fine," Vince muttered. "Just a bit…y'know. Shaky."

"You're not hurt anywhere?"

"No," Vince said, with a firm shake of his head. Howard's eyes automatically switched to the space above Vince's shoulder where he expected black hair to be swinging. Only a few loose strands twitched, like dying spiders, from underneath the balaclava.

"Thank God…"

"Oh, bloody hell!"

Vince sighed, and gave Howard a quivering smile: "Be nice to get a moment of peace without being interrupted, wouldn't it?"

The two men turned around to see another officer, standing on the upper stairwell. He was staring at them dumbly, as if he couldn't believe his luck. He was young, too. Howard would have imagined that he was Vince's age, if not younger, and he looked as if he'd been called in by the Met as a last, desperate form of backup.

Vince grinned, trade-markedly, at the boy. "What? Have I got shit on my face?"

The policeman suddenly seemed to remember what his purpose in life actually was, and he raised his gun at the robbers. "Er…drop your weapons!"

"Oh, Christy, is this what the force has come to?" Howard sighed, "Sending out kids? How old are you, nineteen?"

The kid frowned, obviously antagonized. "Fuck off, mate. I have a license to shoot this thing, y'know."

There was a swift click and a rustle as Vince raised his gun. "Yeah, and I ain't got a license to shoot this one, but do you think that's gonna stop me?"

Howard swallowed. "C'mon, little man. Leave him."

But Vince's lips had twisted into something that was a cross between a sneer and a snarl that, to anyone else, would have made him seem quiet ugly. Howard's heart sank. He knew that Vince had been so determined to do well in this job, and that hadn't happened. The man hadn't got what he had wanted, and someone had to pay for it.

"Come on, he's not going to shoot us."

"Yeah I will!" the boy said, outraged.

"Oh, bugger off," Howard replied, and turned to Vince. "We need to get out of here."

"We can't just leave this guy!"

"There's three men back there, I'm sure he'll be preoccupied."

Vince's shoulders slumped.

"We need to go back and pick up the guys, anyway." He offered Vince a small smile.

Slowly, the younger man nodded. "Yeah, alright."

It was about then that the frustrated officer gathered up the last few shreds of what had been his courage and self-respect, slowly raised his gun, and fired. As if in a film, time seemed to slow down. Howard ducked at Vince, pushing him down just as the bullet narrowly flew over his shoulder. Then the second shot rang out, and Howard felt himself unbalance on his left foot. And then he was tumbling, shuffling backwards towards the staircase…

He fell…

Howard barely registered the string of expletives and the shot and the yelp of pain as he tumbled gracelessly down the concrete stairs. There was sharp pain that ripped at his bones as his body crashed, pain as the stone ripped at his skin. There was pain in his head as he smacked his temple against the sharp edges. White spots waltzed in front of his eyes and _oh God _was this what death was like and _Vince _where was _Vince_ and _pain_...

Stillness. His body crumpled against the wall like a rag doll. Blood trickling into his eyes and soaking into the scratchy material of the balaclava. Ringing in his ears louder than any alarm. Such an undignified way to go.

Footsteps cascading down the stairs and swearing and hard breathing and _Vince_…?

"Oh shit, oh shit…Howard?"

Arms, pulling at him, throat dry but breathing, yes, still breathing.

"Alright, come on…"

Falling again, but not falling. Being dragged, like a corpse, grunts as the door was shouldered opened and light, daylight. Imperfections in the concrete; snags tearing at his clothes.

"Vince…?"

"Don't talk, you bumbaklaat…I got you."

So he didn't. He relaxed into the hard weight as his eyes swelled shut. Then he was bumped over stone – was that the edge of the pavement? There was fumbling and a click as the car unlocked. He felt himself being hauled upwards and pushed roughly into the backseats; sliding across the leather.

The last coherent thought he had was that he was getting blood on Vince's seats.

But then the rumble of the car started up, and he allowed himself to drift…


	9. Chapter 9

_**Note – And so we come to the penultimate chapter. I know I've been writing this since September, and it must feel like such a long time, but to me it still feels like this story is brand-new. It's been even less time for them – just over a month! But here it is, after an intense bout of writing. What do I do with a weekend on my own? Do I have a massive, wild party with all my friends? No, sir. I write about bank robbers for your enjoyment. Please enjoy…**_

**Monday 14****th**** November 2003**

"_There must be someway out of here, said the Joker to the Thief… there's too much confusion, I can't get no relief…businessmen they drink my wine, ploughmen dig my earth…none of them along the line, know what any of it is worth…"_

There was music. That was the first thing Howard knew as soon as his brain flickered back into life. It sounded like Dylan, although he could barely hear it over the slowly subsiding roar in his ears. His face felt clean, cool, like somebody had been wiping his face with a cold flannel. His ears strained towards the sound of the sea, searching for it, but were in return rewarded only with late-afternoon traffic. He was in Dalston, back in his flat. But then where were Ken and Ray? No, Ken and Ray had had guns. Vince, Vince had been there too. Then he had fallen down the stairs and hit his head against the concrete. The very thought of it made him wince; sent sharp shards of pain racing through his veins. So where was Vince? Vince had to be somewhere.

"_No reason to get excited, the Thief he kindly spoke…there are many here among us, who feel that life is but a joke…but you and I we've been through that, and this is not our fate…so let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late…"_

Dylan was still playing. Slowly, Howard opened his clotted eyes. The world was encased in darkness. Then he adjusted, like a camera coming into focus, and he realized that it wasn't just his head. He was staring into darkness; a small pinprick of it.

There was a gun being pointed at the space between his eyes.

Howard's brain was still sluggish, but even the fall-addled thoughts could conclude that this wasn't right, not right at all. He closed his eyes again, and took in a deep breath that squeezed his chest. He made a quick assessment of his predicament – his bones didn't feel broken, which was miraculous in itself, and every source of pain seemed only skin-deep. The problem was the thumping behind his skull.

The fourth thing Howard noticed was that his body was stiff, really stiff, as if he'd been sitting in the same position for a long time. But, yes. He tried to flex his wrists, and something burned against his skin. It was rope. He'd been tied down.

"I thought when you woke up I might play you some music. At first I was gonna play Mint Royale. That was the music I was listening to when we met. I was dancin' in the car, waiting for you to come out the bank, and then you stuck a gun to my head. 'Course, then I realized I'd left the CD at yours, so I figured I'd put on whatever was in the player. Could be worse, eh?"

Howard opened his eyes again. Vince was sitting in the chair opposite, hands clasped firmly around the handle of the Browning 9x19 Millimeter Hi-Power in his hand. His face was set, unsmiling; to fashionably match the freezing cold tone he had spoken with.

"Vince?" Howard asked. His tongue was furry, but his voice was definitely sharper than it had been. "What…what're you-?"

"I reckon that was the first time you stuck a loaded gun to my head," Vince continued, as if the older man hadn't even spoken. "And since then, you've done that…two more times. That makes three, and this is only the first time I've done the same to you."

Howard decided to start small. His head was swimming. "Where am I?"

Vince's hair was damp. He'd changed into a normal ensemble: black jeans; green lightning t-shirt, bare feet. There were Goosebumps of cold on his arms. He shrugged. "My place."

"Vince…I fell down the stairs! I might have concussion; I need to get to a hospi-"

Vince cocked the gun, and Howard fell silent at the tiny but threatening movement. "Every time I thought I was gonna die. Have you ever felt like that? Like…it's indescribable. That first time it was like I was _my own taxi_ to Hell, and the second time I was shitting myself. Third time I gave up. I always thought you were going to do it, too; every time."

Realization flooded Howard's skull; would have knocked him out of his seat if he hadn't been so firmly tied to it. "You called the police on that heist!"

Vince scoffed. "Er, no. That was all coincidence. I'm just improvising here; didn't even have the idea until you were passed out in the car. I've been sitting on it a while, though. See, you always thought I was stupid, didn't you? Just some self-obsessed, flighty, stupid, style-crazy titbox that weren't work a second thought. But I always knew it would come to this, in the end."

Howard coughed. His throat felt dry and scratchy as the balaclava that, he noticed, had been ripped away from his face.

"I've beaten you at your own game, Howard," Vince said, with a small smile. Howard couldn't work out whether it was sad or malicious. "How does it feel?"

There was only silence.

Howard didn't know quite how to respond. How _did_ it feel? In all honesty, he didn't feel much. Everything he was thinking seemed detached by the dull, repetitive aching in his blood. He felt…sad, he supposed. No, not sad, disappointed. He decided to relay this information to Vince:

"Disappointed."

"Yeah," Vince crowed. "Exactly. S'only been a month and I'm already better than you. I'm even better at handling hostages than you were."

"No…I'm disappointed in _you_."

Vince fell silent. His face turned to metaphorical stone.

"What?"

"I mean…I told you to leave; several times, in fact. You refused, remember?"

"Because this is infinitely more satisfying than letting you dickheads forget about me. You probably would have come and shot me anyway."

"Of course we wouldn't! I'm a man of my word."

"Yeah," the young man snarled. "And you promised you'd never try to shoot my in the fucking head again, too, and look how that turned out!"

"You turned the gun on me; it was self-defense."

"Come off it. We both knew I couldn't have done it if I tried. You _threatened_ me."

The gun was shaking in Vince's hands, promising to fall to the floor if the vice-like grip loosened at any point. Vince shook his head and took a deep breath. "Don't matter, though."

Howard sighed. He still wasn't entirely sure what was going on: whether this was real or if his brain was just taking him through a drugged-up haze and he was actually just lying in a hospital bed on a drip. It didn't feel like a hallucination, though. As much as he could, he tried to crane his neck around and get a gauge of his surroundings; of Vince's flat. It was an odd, interesting place, and reminded him vaguely of the place he used to live in, in Dalston. The walls changed colour from block to block, each bright and vivid, morphing between striking purple to lime green to dusty orange like a bemused chameleon. The floor was wood, covered with moth-eaten rugs which looked at least second or third hand. The chair he was currently tied to, it seemed, had been pulled haphazardly from a dining table that rested next to a curtained window. The table itself was covered in crap: mugs and plates and a dirty jar of paint water, and even a small pile of clothes. The whole place was generally relatively clean, but messy, and certainly too small for two young, crazed occupants. There were doors leading through to different rooms: four, so he supposed a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and the outer hallway. There were paintings on the walls, too, all bright surrealist colours and weird distorted animals. Vince's, he imagined.

"D'you like it?"

Howard's head snapped back to his assailant at the words, tinged with an accent that was more pronounced than he'd ever heard it. He guessed it only surfaced when the younger man was angry or defensive, like something out of Jekyll and Hyde. "What?"

Vince gestured to the space around him, the gun travelling with his hand. "I mean the flat. Do you like it? Bit different to yours, eh?"

"It's very…_you_."

Vince grinned. "Yeah."

There was silence. Bob continued, oblivious to Howard's plight, in the background.

"_No I don't feel that good when I see the heartbreaks you embrace, if I was a master thief perhaps I'd rob them…"_

"Are you going to shoot me?"

Vince shrugged. "I dunno. Might do, might not."

"If your aim is to inspire fear in me, then forget it. It won't work."

"Didn't expect nothing else."

"Anything."

"Oh, shut it, small-eyes."

Howard rolled said eyes, longing to close them on the whole sorry mess that his life had melted into. He felt like he was going around in circles – not just the conversation he currently found himself in, but the whole ordeal. He felt like he and Vince were back at the beginning. These casual threats, verbal sparring, nicknames, it all seemed so familiar but turned on its head. This was everything he had said to Vince way back in October. It seemed Vince really had completed his training. And the boy was right – he was good. Of course he was. He had to be, otherwise Howard would have failed in his duties, but if he had done that he wouldn't be so scared.

"Are we just gonna sit here in silence, then?" Vince huffed.

"Well, yeah. What were you expecting?"

"Oh, I dunno…some sort of conversation. Thought you'd be angry, at least."

"You want me to be angry with you?"

Vince shrugged nonchalantly. "Dunno. I'm bored."

"You're pointing a gun to my head and you're companioning about being _bored_?" Howard said incredulously, after a contemplative pause. He was struggling to keep the anger out of his voice and rise to Vince's bait. He breathed. "God, nothing's changed, has it?"

"Nah. Not really," Vince said, with a smirk, knowing that it would sting. And, by God, it stung deep – a painful reminder of Howard's own gullibility when faced with affection.

"So what do you want to talk about?" he said, trying not to wince.

Vince, infuriatingly, shrugged again. "Anything. Everything."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that, remember?"

Vince's brows furrowed, minutely. He said nothing.

Sensing a chink in the armour, Howard laughed bitterly. "Well, then, I suppose you'd better get it over and done with, hadn't you? I mean, it'll take you a while to wipe the blood off the walls; come up with a half-decent alibi for why you've been gone for so long. I don't reckon _I got trapped by a Lego avalanche _will quite cut it, do you?"

Vince said nothing. His hands were trembling, ever so slightly.

Howard continued: "After all. My two best friends are probably dead, thanks to you. I probably won't be able to go home, considering they'll have found your car on CCTV and taken down the number plate and traced it back to my house. I haven't got anything _else_ to live for, have I?"

The jibe hit exactly where it was supposed to, and Vince's eye twitched. The tactic was a risky gamble if Vince was serious in his threats, but it seemed to be working. His lips were pressed together so hard that they were almost white. Now the gun was visibly wobbling under his fingers. Howard smiled at him: "Go on. Do yourself a favour."

Vince said nothing. Instead, he got up and shakily dropped the gun on the floor where it landed with a weary crack. The young man pulled a pair of scruffy Chelsea boots from underneath a sofa (which, judging by pillows and duvets piled on it, was also a bed) and hastily pulled them on. He grabbed a coat from the same pile, and then dashed out of the door, slamming and locking it behind him. The sound wobbled throughout the flat.

Howard sighed. He flexed his wrists, tied firmly behind the back of the chair, testing the knots. They were surprisingly loose. He squirmed, hearing the snaps and clicks as the joints, stuck in an unnatural position for so long, reassembled in his command. He tried again. The rope rubbed against his skin, and he winced at the small friction burns it left behind. For a second, he wondered why Vince had rope lying around his flat, but then the thought flickered on by as another twist of his hands made the ropes fall down around the base of his hands.

He wasn't sure how long he sat and scrabbled like a rat at the binds, but eventually the gap was big enough to slip his left hand through. He picked at the knot and it eventually, finally, fell away underneath his fingernails. With a grateful sigh, Howard flicked his arms put in front of him and there was a soft thud as the abused ropes crumpled to the floor. His placed his hands to his face and ran them through his hair, trying in vain to ignore the flashes of red-hot pain from the burns and bruises that adorned his arms.

After a short while, he tried to stand up. His vision swayed before him and he placed a hand on the seat of the chair to steady himself. When the swirling mass in his head calmed down, he bent down and swept Vince's gun up off the floor. He held it, feeling the fading warmth from a lost grip seep into his palm. For a moment, he wondered if he could try and use it against his assailant if Vince should choose to return, but then he shook his head and placed it gently back on the floor. You couldn't use another man's gun against him. It didn't feel right, somehow. Howard might have used his own gun, but then he realised with an unnerving sinking feeling that his own weapon was probably still lying somewhere in a Shoreditch Barclays from when he dropped it when he fell. Which was a pity – it probably could have come in useful.

Now that he was standing, he could see the rest of the flat. It seemed that the living room he was currently in also doubled up as a bedroom as well as a dining room. He wondered whether it was Vince's or his flatmate. What was his name? Liam? Howard moved over to the window, ignoring his aching leg, to open the curtains. The flat looked out into a small and dirty alleyway. The door was locked, too. It seemed he wasn't allowed to leave just yet.

He considered turning the music off, and momentarily did, but the flat was plunged into an eerie silence. He rummaged through the pile of CDs next to the stereo, rolling his eyes when each one, all _Best Ofs_, decreed the legendary status of the Sixties, Seventies or Gary Numan. So he flicked the play button again, drawing back the rough voice and soothing harmonica for company.

"_I've heard you say many times that you're better than no one and no one is better than you…if you really believe that you know you have nothing to win and nothing to lose…"_

He picked his way across the room, and opened the first door. As he had suspected, this one led into a kitchen. It was a rather beautiful one, considering Vince's culinary abilities had been second to none. It was like an interpretation of outer space from the Sixties, with silver chrome counters with orange glass surfaces, and a leather utensil-holder which only held one wooden spoon and two knives. The kitchen, though clean, was very sparse. On the hob, there was one small saucepan, and resting on the counter next to it a solitary cheese-grater.

The room next door was a bathroom. It was tiny, and full to the brim of strange bottles and canisters with labels that Howard wasn't fashionable enough to understand. There was a small sink with a mirror above it, and he moved over towards it. As soon as his eyes cast themselves over his reflection, he flinched. Vince had, apparently, hastily cleaned up his face; there were small patches of clean skin on his face. But there was a web of dried blood that spread out across his profile from various nicks. One particularly nasty one on his brow had left a trail of red liquid spread across one cheek, and there was a golden bruise by his split upper lip. He was still wearing his coat, which was spotted with coppery dots. He ran the cold tap, and splashed freezing water across his face, letting it seep into the cracks and into his hair. He almost tripped over a can of hairspray (the most powerful known to man, the label said) in his haste to leave the bathroom.

The third and final room was a bedroom. The windows had been thrown open, and there was the stench of putrid life in every corner. The bed was messy and unmade, and, like the rest of the flat, clothes and other miscellanea were strewn across every possibly item capable of holding them. There was a small chest of drawers, the top of which was covered with makeup. There was a framed photograph of Vince and some other guy. They were mucking around, posing stupidly, massive ridiculous sunglasses.

Howard sighed and moved back into the kitchen. This whole place was strange. The bold colours, the mess – it was like Vince's own personal museum. It was too silent, even with the music. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one, not caring when some of the icy liquid spilled and dribbled down his neck. He refilled it and drank again when a bubble of thirst rose in his throat. Then he went back through into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

Howard Moon sat there for an hour.

God knows where Vince had run off to. His first thought was that the younger man had gone to fetch the police, but then he would have had to explain why he had a convicted felon tied up in his living room, and even Vince wasn't that stupid. Then he thought maybe Vince had gone to spend the money they had successfully taken, but no, the briefcase was still by the door. He eventually settled on the explanation that the youngest man had simply gone for a wander around London. He hoped to God that the flatmate wouldn't come back anytime soon. What would he say then? Oh, hi, I'm Howard, but you've probably heard of me under a different name; I've been keeping your friend hostage for a month and then we tried to rob a bank and failed and I think now he's trying to kill me, you wouldn't let us out, would you? That would be ridiculous. Not to mention that only a few days ago he and Vince were living together in blissful harmony.

Howard still didn't quite understand where he'd gone wrong.

Vince hadn't seemed that skilled an actor, much less willing to pretend to like somebody in order to manipulate that trust. In fact, he'd always seemed the most honest person Howard had ever met. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe, in a world where people lied and cheated and stole to get what they wanted, Howard took the littlest fake honesty to be real.

"_Now there's a wall between us, something there's been lost…I took too much for granted, I got my signals crossed…just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn…come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm…"_

Howard was exhausted.

* * *

There was a rustling outside as the door clicked open. Howard leapt up from his seat, unsure as to what would happen next. Vince came into the room, and his jaw slackened as his eyes met Howard's. The Northerner held his gaze for a moment.

After a second Vince, like a startled rabbit, leapt across the room and swept his gun off the floor. He pointed it at Howard again.

"How the _fuck_ did you…?"

"Your knots were hardly award-worthy, little man."

"Don't call me that!"

Howard held his hands up, attempting a demeanour of calm. In reality, his chest ached from the pounding of his heart.

"Alright, Vince, alright. I won't."

Slowly, unsteadily, Vince lowered the gun. He swallowed. His lips were cracked.

Howard took a steadying breath. "Are you going to let me go?"

The answer was immediate. "No."

"Vince, come off it. What are you going to do? Keep me here forever?"

"No, no, I'm…fuck…" Vince's eyes flickered shut, and then snapped open again. Howard wasn't the only one who was exhausted. His voice came out as a whimper: "I dunno what I'm doin'. I said this was all improvised, didn't I?"

Howard breathed through his nose. "If you shoot that gun people will hear you and they will come running."

"And I'll tell them who you are and I'll be a hero."

"Do you want me to die?"

A moment.

A moment that stretched into grey eternity.

Vince shook his head.

"Then what do you want me to do, Vince?" Howard said slowly. "Do you want money? Because I'm sure you've got enough in that briefcase to last you a long time; long enough that you won't have to work again. I'll go home and I'll never speak to you again, if that's what you want. You can forget about this whole fucked up piece of shit part of your life and I won't give a damn even though it'll probably kill me, I'm not denying that. You can just go and do whatever the fuck you want and I'll leave you alone. But help me out here, little man."

Vince had placed the gun on the chair at some point during Howard's monologue, and had wrapped his skinny arms around his torso. He suddenly looked very small.

"So I stick a gun against your head and you don't even care?" he said eventually. His tone was biting, but thawed. "Nothing scares you, does it, Moon? I always thought I was brave. A little Camden scrapper who wanted to live life on the edge of a fucking switch blade. I thought if someone ever pushed a loaded gun to my head that I'd still be able to hold my own. Three tries in, and it's still bloody terrifying. I thought that if I could outsmart the man who did it then I'd be the winner. And, hey, I learnt how to rob a bank at the same time, so it was a pretty win-win situation, yeah? But you didn't even flinch."

"What made you think I didn't care?"

"I didn't even want you begging for mercy or nothing – God, this is coming out kinky – I just wanted you to feel what I felt. It weren't even revenge, not really. Just wanted you to have a taste of your own medicine. And if you were anyone else I'd have done it, too. It's just when you say something and then suddenly I remember shit. You making quiche. Out of all bloody things I remember the fucking _quiche _and you've got this life that I always wanted because you don't ever pretend to be something you're not. Well, apart from when you're at work, but that doesn't really count, does it?"

Howard frowned. "I have to admit, you lost me at quiche."

"I didn't want to make you frightened…" Vince muttered. "I just wanted to make you understand. It would kill me, too."

He looked up, and gave Howard a lopsided, imperfect, watery but impeccably beautiful smile. "Fucking love you, you jazzy freak. Just never try to shoot me again, alright?"

And then he crashed into Howard's chest and they moulded together like wax, joined together only by the movement of their intertwined mouths, and it was messy and confused and wrapped in emotion but it was nothing short of perfect.

Vince was laughing. "I love you, Howard…"

"Funny way of showing it, you ponce."

"You won't; ever?"

"No. I love you, Vince. Of _course_ I do."

* * *

They left under the shrouding cover of darkness as Vince walked around each flat and turned off the lights on by one. He paused by the CD player, and then left it alone. The shadows clung to his angular face as he gave one last fleeting look at the flat with a wistful sigh. Howard steadied a hand on his shoulder, and the younger man shot him a smile that pierced through the older man's skin. The music kept on, the razored voice keeping company with the night as Bob continued to sing.

"_Why wait any longer for the world to begin, you can have your cake and eat it too…why wait any longer for the one you love when he's standing in front of you…?"_

When the song came to an end, the player cut out, leaving a trail of silence in its wake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sunday 13****th**** December 2003**

It was freezing cold; a premonition of the upcoming days. The sea was grey, almost silvery, lined with the white horses of foam that galloped their way across the shingle and dissolved into the sand. The sky was pallid with blotted clouds, like dampened paper. Howard stood on the balcony, shivering despite the thick brown jumper he was wearing, and breathed the chilled air into his nostrils. It opened him up from the inside like a window, and he felt receptive. Vince was in the other room, changing into the new jeans he'd ordered off some website that Howard had never heard of. It was refreshing, even after a month, to see his lover enjoying the money that they had stolen. Vince revelled in it, practically buying himself a whole new wardrobe and the most expensive hair products money could buy off Howard's debit card, not to mention the other expensive gadgets that his other half normally wouldn't normally invest in. It was refreshing after so long, to see someone enjoying the fruits of robbery in his home. Even still, nothing could quench the rush of love Howard felt whenever he walked into a room and the other man was curled up on a sofa wearing a stolen and oversized shirt like a puppet.

Howard still remembered driving home after that eventful night: the orange lights that flickered over Vince's face as they passed into the lights overlooking the darkened motorway. The panic he had felt as he clumsily tapped out the number of Ray's mobile into his landline and the flood of relief when he was answered. The ensuing conversation:

"_Hello?"_

"_Ray! Oh, Jesus Christ…"_

"_Howard? Fucking hell…hey, Ken! Ken! It's Howard! The bastard's alive! What the fuck happened, Moon? We thought you'd been shot; the kid too!"_

"_I dodged a bullet, fell down the stairs. Vince panicked and took me back to his flat."_

"_We were waiting for ten minutes; we thought you were dead!"_

"_No, no…I thought _you_ were dead! I'm so glad you're ok. What happened to you?"_

"_We had to hotwire a bloody Nissan! We came back here. I've been calling you all afternoon!"_

"_Dropped my phone…Oh, God__…"_

The way both of them had sunk gratefully into bed and slept instantly, in their clothes, and waking up to find his arms wrapped around Vince's chest and a feathery head against his own.

They were alright now, for the most part. Vince had spent the ensuing week barely leaving Howard's side. He would just quietly sit in a corner, watching him. Aside from that, for the most part, things had returned to normal. Howard sometimes wondered how this strange, fascinating, stunning man had decided to end up with an ordinary, jazz-loving secretary like him. He'd put this question to Vince once, in a slowly cooling late-night moment. Vince had just laughed.

"In what kind of fucked-up world would you be normal, Howard?"

After some careful consideration, Howard had concluded that it was a fair enough statement.

There was some movement behind him as the little man joined him on the balcony. Howard cast an approving eye over the tight-fitting jeans, sleek and sunset-red; matched with a floaty, androgynous black lace top. Vince winked at him with a lined eye.

"Do you approve, Mr. Moon?"

"Oh, I do, Mr. Noir. I do very much. But you'd better not wear those out."

Vince smirked: "Yeah? Why's that then?"

"Don't want you running off with the first bastard that takes your fancy," Howard joked.

"Jealous git. You don't like people playing with your toys, do you? I bet the first bastard to take my fancy wouldn't rob banks."

There was a pause.

"And anyway, we never go out."

"I do take you out!"

"Bugger off. You keep saying it's dangerous."

"Alright!" Howard laughed. "I'll take you out this Friday."

Vince beamed. "Really?"

"I'll take you out for a posh dinner like a proper gangster's moll."

"Genius!"

"You'd like that, would you? Alright. This Friday, I promise."

The younger man leant against the balcony, his legs at crooked angles, following Howard's intent gaze at the horizon. Below them, a seagull did a shit on the pavement.

"Lovely," Vince muttered wryly. Howard hummed in agreement. "Hey, Howard?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we ever gonna go back? Are we ever going to…" his voice lowered so that it was barely discernable above the rising wind. "Y'know. Rob banks again."

"I don't know. Why? Do you want to?"

"I dunno." Vince shuffled his feet against the rippled wood as if he were moonwalking. "I mean, sometimes I want to. Like, really want to. And then sometimes I just wanna stay here like an old person, with you. You're never going back, are you?"

Howard shook his head. "Sorry. I think I'm a bit old for that malarkey."

"You're only thirty-five!" Vince grinned, and punched Howard playfully on the arm. "Jagger's sixty and he's still the coolest man on the planet, so don't fish for compliments."

"You could do it all by yourself, I bet," Howard continued. "You and the boys could take a different place either side of the country at the same time and confuse the police. You'd never be caught. I could stay at home like an old man and perform marital duties."

Vince winked saucily. "I like the sound of that."

"I meant cooking and cleaning, you tart!"

"You love it, really."

"You'd be brilliant," Howard mused. "The best heist-man in London."

Vince shrugged. "Nah," he said. "It wouldn't be any fun without you."

"You soppy git. You mean it?"

Howard's head turned, and his eyes met Vince's. The young man nodded.

"Yeah, pretty much. We're Bonnie and Clyde, yeah?"

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"What about you? You used to be all tough and aggressive. Anyone pays you a compliment now you go as fuzzy as a warm kitten," Vince grinned. "What happened?"

"You happened."

"Eeurgh!" Vince laughed. "Who are you, the Clinton Cards man?"

"Shut up, you." Howard shook his head, endeared. "You want a sandwich?"

Vince pondered the question for a moment. "Yeah, go on then."

"Nutella and honey, white, no crusts?"

"You know me well, small eyes."

Howard rolled his eyes. "I never bought half this shit before. I'm amazed you're not obese, the amount of sugar you eat."

"I'll have you know I've gained tons of weight since I came here!"

Howard gazed disbelievingly at his lover's concave stomach and cocked an eyebrow. "You're about as fat as a skeleton on heroin!"

"I have!" Vince protested. "It's all your home cooking. I never ate so well at home. You said you saw my kitchen, there was nothing there."

"Yeah, yeah…" Howard was halfway through the glass doors. He turned back to his lover, who was still standing and gazing out to sea. "You coming?"

"I'll come down in a second," Vince replied, twisting his head with a smile. Howard nodded, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge, shaking his head at all the rubbish Vince had piled in. Maybe he should stop sending the younger man out for food. The kitchen was clean, immaculately so. Howard's own doing, of course; Vince never deigned to help out with the housework. But, most of the time, Howard preferred still being able to have his house the way he liked it. Sure, there had never been so many shoes in his bedroom before, and the occasional dusty footprint found its way onto his prized Harrods sofa, but the odd means of domesticity they had going on worked for both of them. It had only been two months, but Howard could barely remember a time where Vince wasn't living wrapped tightly around him. Maybe he just didn't want to.

He prepared the meal, and called Vince downstairs. Soon enough, there was a bound and a clatter on the stairs as the man raced down it, as bouncy as any child. He grabbed the plate, and with a smile and a "Cheers, Howard," rushed off into the living room like a whirlwind to eat. Howard smiled at he watched him go. It was nice to have some energy in the place. He picked up his own food (ham and lettuce on wholemeal, thank you very much) and went to join him.

Vince was sitting on the sofa, his feet up, and he swung them off the pillows as Howard came into the room. He seemed to be missing the point of the plate; the sandwich balanced on his knee.

"Hey, Howard?" Vince asked after a moment, through a mouthful of thin sandwich. "You know how you always go on about how important planning is because you're boring?"

"Er, yes. I hope you're going somewhere with this…"

"I was just thinking…what if you hadn't planned as well as you had on the day we met?"

Howard frowned. "I don't quite follow, little man."

"I mean, like, you said the plan had always been to go back to yours, so I was thinking-"

"Oh, God, don't strain yourself!"

"Ha-ha," Vince said sarcastically. "I was wondering, y'know…what if you'd planned differently. What if you'd said you were going back to Ken's house instead? How different would things be?"

Howard opened his mouth to reply, but then quickly closed it. The truth was, he had entertained this same thought before, on occasion. He'd never entirely liked the outcome. What if, for example, they _had _gone back to Ken's? The bastard had a fucking massive second home in Manchester where they went for getaways instead of the shiny conspicuous flat he owned in Canary Wharf. Ken was a nice enough man, but got aggressive when he panicked. Vince would have been shot in five minutes: locked up in a dark cellar shitting himself. Howard liked to think that he would have intervened. But a small part of him knew that, had they gone back to Ken's, he would have happily left Ken to deal with the problem. He wouldn't have had any of that banter with the boy in his attic. If they had changed the plan, Vince would be dead.

The mere thought was like a boot to the stomach. He smiled reassuringly at the younger man.

"Don't worry. A strong man of action such as myself would have come to your aid."

"Piss off, Howard," Vince smirked, polishing off his sandwich.

Howard shook his head and picked up his book. Vince was, amazingly, respective and quiet. He played with a threat on his top. They sat there for a while, in silence as Howard scanned through his book with a keen eye and tried not to notice Vince pretending not to watch him read. He flicked through the pages slowly, purposely, and suppressed a smile when the blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of paper. One last word. Then he put the book down.

"That was a good book," he smiled. Vince glanced up at him.

"Hmm?"

"I've finished my book."

"Bout bloody time. You've been reading that since I got here!"

Howard decided not to mention that he barely remembered the name of the main character.

"I need to buy the next one now…"

Vince slammed a pillow against his face in exasperation. "Oh, Christy! Do you have to?"

"Well, what else do I have to fill up my Sundays with?"

Vince leapt up from the chair, and smiled seductively. He stepped casually over, and threw himself down on the sofa next to Howard, who was already blushing. He didn't even need to say anything; their lips met in mid air. They kissed lazily.

"You taste like honey," Howard mumbled after a moment. His lips were swollen.

"Yeah?"

"I don't like honey."

"So stop kissing me, then."

"Mm. No, I don't fancy that."

Vince pulled away; studied Howard's face intently. His mouth was flushed. "You need a shave."

Howard tentatively touched his face. "Really?"

"Yeah! First that moustache, now you're gettin' a beard!"

"What's wrong with my moustache?"

"Nothing's wrong with your - well, it is quite funny…"

"This is a good look, a strong look."

Vince laughed, and batted Howard's cheek gently. "Go and have a shave, Grizzly Adams. If your look gets any stronger they'll be able to pick you out of a line-up."

Howard couldn't find a good, normal disposable razor for a good ten minutes. His bathroom cabinet, which used to contain the most basic utensils arranged in height order, was now stocked to the brim with useless trinkets. It seemed Vince barely even bothered to put the lids back on things when he'd finished with them, and the once untarnished air was now fragranced with the faint aroma of hairspray. A pair of straighteners was warming by the side of the sink. The large bathtub, which Howard usually took great pride in, now was being used as a makeshift shelf for at least five different types of conditioner. He tentatively took a sniff of the brightest bottle, and his throat tightened in reflex as he breathed in the coconut smell that lingered in Vince's clothes.

He found one in the end, after almost causing an avalanche by moving a packet of facial wipes that was underneath it. It was electric; not one he was used to. He assumed it was Vince's, although Vince seemed so youthful that the thought of him needing to shave had never crossed his mind. Howard rummaged around, and found nothing. The sense of the thrumming electricity in his hand was strange, unnatural. He sometimes thought his life was so unbelievably fucked up that he cherished normality more than any other man. Not Vince, though. He never liked normal; found something exquisite about each dull artefact that found its way into his hands after queuing to be there. He'd found something in the Northerner, after all, and that was a rarity. Still. Howard knew he'd miss it, if it vanished. He knew that one never really appreciated things until they were gone, but he might as well try.

He shaved carefully around the mocha stain on his top lip, remembering with no particular fondness the day when he hadn't owned one. His hair was still as messy as it had been on that day, as frustrating as Vince found it, and he wore his glasses more often than not. He didn't _think_ he was a different person, not entirely. He still listened to jazz and rarely wore anything than plain shirts – despite the beige trilby his partner had tried to get him interested in. He still worked in the same place and always bought the same wine from Sainsbury's. He still robbed banks.

Despite what he had said earlier, he wasn't sure he would ever entirely give it up. Not really.

Apart from anything else, he didn't reckon he would ever be able to meet up with Ken and Ray again without them taking the piss. He may have become demure and domestic in recent months, yes, but he had always been like that underneath and he was pretty sure that they'd been able to sense his growing reluctance in the last couple of years. Anyway, he wouldn't fully trust them taking Vince out on a heist alone.

Howard rubbed the shaving foam off his face and glanced at his face in the mirror – narrowly clean, the only remaining stubble smudged on his top lip. He looked respectable. Maybe Vince was right; looks were more important than he cared to admit.

The doorbell sounded, and the buzzing sound trembled through the house. Presently enough, a call of "I've got it" came up the stairs. Howard ran a hand through his hair, not disturbed by the noise. Whitstable was rife with religious zealots on a Sunday, and Vince had enough charm and tact to be able to deal with it. He casually thrust the razor back into the messy jumble of products in the cabinet, trying not to care when the force knocked over a few tablet boxes. He shut the door, and washed his hands in the sink.

"Howard!"

Howard froze.

_Bang. _

_Bang._

Then he moved like silent lightning, throwing himself through the door and pelting across the cornflower-blue carpet of the hallway. When he got to the top of the stairs, he pressed himself against the wall and nudged his way slowly down the steps. He cursed himself mentally. His breathing was too fast, too erratic. Surely anybody would be able to hear his heart beating: it pummelled against his ribs, cracking them and turning the bone to splinters; it forced the blood up to scream in his ears. The crack of the gunshot that had just been fired had been a quiet sound, made muffled by the silencer that he'd had fitted – that was, if the gun fired _had_ been his own.

He turned the corner of the steps, and gasped.

There was a spattering of red on his wall, the crimson dribbling stark and patriotic against the white. The red was dark, almost black, the droplets fat and wide and greedy as they raced towards the floor, and towards the body that lay there – the body being literal. For, where any man would expect to be a head, lay only a mangled mass of blood. Wide blue eyes gazed sightlessly out. Blood from the hole above the left eye had matted into midnight-black hair. The corpse – for it was a corpse, surely – was slumped heavily against the wall, a gun loosely held in the hand that dropped limply to the floor. Howard swallowed the bile that was swiftly rising in his throat, and took the next few stairs down. He turned towards the door.

Vince's arms were still outstretched. The faint plume of acrid smoke that rose from the butt of his weapon burrowed into Howard's nostrils. His blue eyes were wider than saucers, and were quickly filling with sharp tears that scratched his cheeks like fibreglass. His mouth was twisted, aghast. His whole body was trembling violently. The other man seemed just as horrified, but calmer, as he made his way over to the body and touched it with trembling hands.

"Cal? Calvin…? F-f-fuck…"

The man was young, too young for the body armour he was wearing, blonde hair showing where he hadn't put his helmet on. He stood up, and his face was twisted in anger.

"You fucker!"

He fumbled with the gun in his holster. White hot rage whipped through Howard's body and in a flurry of movement he flung himself down the stairs, snatched the gun out of the dead man's hand and held it to the young man's head. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled the trigger against the soft skin in the boy's neck. The gun quietly shuddered. The officer barely had time to whimper before he slumped to the ground, as still as his companion. Blood seeped into Howard's shirt. There were pinpoints of his on his face, mapped out like constellations. It covered his hands, clogged under his nails.

Howard swallowed.

"My God…Vince…what the fuck…?"

His voice was shaky, too, involuntarily, and had abruptly risen in pitch. He crossed the room in two strides and enveloped the little man in a tight, strangling embrace. Vince collapsed against his shoulder, clasping onto his back with his hand. Howard ignored the aching press of the gun into his spine. He ran his hand over Vince's hair roughly, barely registering that the man had blood in his precious coiffure. It was a brutal embrace.

"Are you alright, Vince? Talk to me."

Vince weakly nodded against his shoulder. Howard drew back, grabbed Vince's shoulders with his arms and looked deeply into his eyes.

"You're not hurt anywhere?"

"No, I – I don't think so."

"Oh, thank God!"

He hugged Vince again, more gentle this time: "What happened?"

"I dunno, Howard," Vince sobbed. "I opened the door and they was just _there_, these police guys and they barged in, said they knew who you were and what you'd done an' they said they'd been sent to arrest us so I called for you but then the first one, he pulled this gun out on me and he shot but I ducked and so he was gonna shoot me again but I ran for the drawer and I got mine and I shot him, I shot him but I didn't have time to check where coz he was about to pull the trigger and so I shot 'im, I killed him, I…"

Vince broke down into startled, angry sobs. Howard breathed in sharply as water seeped through his shirt and stuck to his shoulder. He hadn't noticed before, but the door was slightly ajar and there was a smoking black hole in the wood.

"Am I a murderer, Howard?"

"Vince…" He drew back, looked his partner dead in the eyes. "Vince, listen to me, alright? What you did, that was self-defence. If anything, I…"

He couldn't even finish the sentence. He moved to the door and pushed it shut in a pointless effort to somehow shield them from the horrors lurking outside. He ran his fingers through his hair, dragging them over his scalp: "Fuck…"

"I've never killed anyone before."

"Me neither, Vince."

"Howard?"

Howard turned. Vince was staring at him. "Yeah?"

"What do we do now?" Vince's voice was barely above a whisper, a whimper.

Howard shrugged. "I don't know, Vince."

"But…you always know. You always know, Howard. Everythin' you know what to do."

"Not this time, little man. I've never planned for this."

Vince wiped his cheeks with the palms of his clean, unsoiled hands. Then he looked up, and offered Howard a shaky smile. "Right. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"

He had barely taken a step before he sunk to his knees. Howard dashed to his side, and hoisted him up and into the living room; sat him on the sofa.

"Don't worry, eh, little man…" he muttered soothingly. "You just stay there, alright…"

When he was satisfied that Vince was ok, Howard moved off into the kitchen, his gaze pointedly bypassing the slumped figures and the blood that shone on his floor. He turned on the kettle with surprisingly steady hands, and then rested his head against the fridge.

"Shit…" he whispered to himself.

He didn't know what to do, what even their options were. If what the policemen were saying were true, then there would soon be police on their trails. The only reason they weren't both dead now was because shit like this _didn't_ happen in Kent. London, yes, but not here. Here the people ate oysters and had folk nights. Here, the nice young coppers who helped assist old ladies across the road didn't get shot by the fugitives in the nice house by the sea. Whitstable might have been relaxed about law enforcement, but even they had protocols for this sort of thing. Howard knew that they would be vastly outnumbered, and what then?

He glanced around his kitchen, and the sudden force of what he had just done hit him. He had just _shot_ someone in the back of the neck, and now that person was dead. He had just _killed_ a person. Howard had never used to think he would ever kill anybody. That was before somebody had a gun up against Vince's petrified face, he supposed. He felt sick, clogged up from the inside with tar and cement. Vince, Vince had shot somebody too.

They had been blissful an hour ago, lazily kissing in the afternoon sun. How could things go from being so good to so shit in such a short time?

Howard poured the tea, and monotonously poured in the milk and stirred it. The comforting liquid, the symbol of British content, stared ironically back at him.

He picked up the mugs, and was about to take them through to the living room when a large crashing sound echoed through the house. Vince appeared in the hallway, and scuttled towards Howard, his boots leaving a trail of blood behind him. There was yelling from outside, and the wood of the door began to splinter. When it crashed open, the first thought that flickered through Howard's mind was one of relief. This, however, quickly gave way to panic when four armed policemen came bursting into the hallway, pointing their guns and shouting and shouting. Both men leapt up off the sofa, and Howard instinctively leapt in front of Vince.

"Put your hands in the air!" one barked, kicking the gun that Vince had dropped earlier out of reach. Reluctantly, Howard complied, and Vince silently followed his lead.

"Holy shit!" one of the other men cried out. "That's Calvin and Rob!"

"Are they…?"

"Yeah…"

"Fuck it, I'll fucking shoot them myself, the cunts!"

One of the officers stormed into the room, and raised his gun towards Howard's face. The Northerner cowered back, shielding Vince with his arms. The man snarled. Howard closed his eyes tightly and waited.

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

When he felt no pain, Howard slowly, tentatively opened one eye. Then he opened the other.

"You fucking bastards…" he whispered to himself.

"Yeah, nice to see you too, Moon!" came a familiar Irish brogue, and Ken tugged the mask off his face and grinned at the pair. They were standing in the doorway, framed by the dimming daylight like two gun-wielding, balaclava-toting superheroes. With a grunt, the smaller man next to him also pulled the cover off his face.

"And what the fuck were you two doing?" he exclaimed. "Standing there without your guns. Have we taught you absolutely nothing?"

"Yeah, well, you bloody well took your time!" Vince cried, grabbing Howard's hand.

"Yeah, what _are_ you doing here, anyway?" Howard added.

Ken gestured downwards, and for the first time Howard registered the mottled blood of the four fallen policemen, that ran in a river to join their friends. He breathed in tightly.

"We got tipped off," the Irishman said. "Some bloke down the Met said they'd got wind of the bank robbers down here and so we thought we'd best come and make sure you were ok."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said Ray. "But, fuck's sake! You two need to get out."

"And go where?"

"Just go," replied the large man. "Head for London and Ken and I will call you when we've figured something out. Trouble is, right, you've just killed six men-"

"Two!" Vince cried, outraged.

"Yeah, but they don't know _we_'ve been here," argued Ken. "And it'll stay that way, with any luck. For now, just grab what you need, and get the fuck out of here."

* * *

Howard took one final glance at his house, and slung the bag over his shoulder. He was going to miss the old place, as sentimental as it was. He'd packed an assortment of normal, everyday clothes into an old rucksack to take, as well as the essentials: toothbrush, a few CDs, and, of course, teabags. After some careful deliberation, he had tucked his gun safely inside as well. He had momentarily worried about Vince's packing, but the little man had been surprisingly minimal – not to mention he had an amazing ability to fit things in bags in a way to make Mary Poppins jealous. Vince had been quiet; subdued. Howard didn't bloody blame him.

"Alright, Howard?" Ken asked. Howard turned and fumbled with the glasses that were sliding off his face.

"Yep. Let's go."

Vince was waiting by the door. He'd showered, changed; binned the brand-new red jeans that had soaked up too much blood. He smiled shyly, and Howard smiled back. He took his hand.

Together, they ducked through the door with their bags and dashed as if it were raining towards the little mint-blue taxi. Howard chucked his bag in the back and clambered into the front seat. Vince got in next to him.

"What're they…" he muttered. Howard leant past him, following his gaze towards the now-broken front door of his house. Ken and Ray were standing, obscured from view, waving two pieces of material in front of their faces.

"Oh, shit…" Howard muttered.

"What?"

"We forgot to put the balaclavas on."

Howard twisted back to look through the rearview mirror. For the first time in his life, his luck had run out, for the usually easy-going camera was glaring right at him. He groaned, and then felt an arm on his shoulder.

"It don't matter," Vince muttered. "Let's just go."

"Right you are, little man."

The car began to quietly purr. "Hey, Howard?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm…I'm ok. I know you think I ain't, but I am. My body's telling me I shouldn't be, and I know I'm not physically, but…once I get over this…I'll be alright."

Howard's smile threatened to tear at his cheekbones.

"I love you, Howard."

"Love you too, Vince."

"Whatever happens, right?"

"Yeah. You want to put some music on?"

Vince grinned, and rummaged around in the glove compartment, pulling out a container and flicking through a few CDs. He pulled one out, and his face lit up. He slotted the disc into the portable player that still rested on the dashboard, and pressed play.

Howard groaned. "Not electro!"

"This is an absolute classic, you jerk-off!"

"Fine, but only if I get to play Mingus after we get to London."

"In your fucking dreams, love."

And as the two turned out onto the motorway, still bickering, Vince suddenly let out a howl of excitement and began singing along to the CD. In that moment, Howard forgot that they'd just killed two people or that the whole of England's police were out looking for them, because Vince was laughing and smiling and singing along, and everything was good.

"_Ooh! Right through my head!_

_I ain't got the blues no more I said,_

_Step some more, I said, pick me up,_

_Thinking I've got a lot, ooh ay eh…_"

_**The End…But Is It Really The End…?**_

**Note – That's it! It's over! I don't know about you, but I feel very emotional. I would like now to thank everybody who has ever read, favourited and especially reviewed this story, and everyone who will do so in the future. I completely owe everything I've written to you, and I won't name all of you because you know who you are. But thanks for sticking through this with me, and maybe I'll see you when I dig out these characters to play with once more. Until then, thank you, and goodnight!**


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